


What About Tomorrow?

by Russell_Craig



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-19 11:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 136,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russell_Craig/pseuds/Russell_Craig
Summary: For the good of their kingdoms Daenerys and Jon need to marry, but simply knowing it’s right doesn’t make it easy.  Daenerys’s feelings for Arya complicate things for all three of them.  Will her decisions ruin her last chance at happiness?*Now in Progress as a Full Length Story*





	1. Chapter 1

What About Tomorrow?

She’d been awake for at least an hour, working hard to keep her eyes closed and her breaths even. It had been well more than a week since she’d gotten a restful night, but she made no attempt to return to bliss of sleep. There would be time for peace and solitude in the coming days, that time wasn’t now. 

She didn’t need to look to know what was waiting for her. She could sense the eyes watching as certainly as she could feel the weight of the other body next to her on the bed. She heard the occasionally whispered word from her left and the heat of a hand caressing her upturned hip in a lazy, rhythmic pattern was impossible to ignore. 

“Are you awake?” the voice asked her gently. 

“I am,” she declared simply. It would be easier to feign sleep, but she didn’t. There would be enough cause to lie today, there was no point in beginning before it was absolutely necessary. 

“Have you been awake long?” the Queen asked, the slight edge in her voice making it clear she already suspected the truth. 

“A while,” she answered vaguely. The gently petting of her hip moved to her thigh and stopped when Arya finally opened her eyes. After a few quick blinks the room came into focus. On any other day she might have been pleased to find Daenerys naked, boosted up an elbow, studying her with fevered dedication but not today. Today was their last. 

She attempted to roll away, to put a small measure of distance between their bodies, if only so it would be easier to go, but Daenerys refused to release her. As she pressed her lips into the crease of Arya’s neck she wondered aloud, “Is it wrong if I don’t want this moment to end?”

Was it wrong? Probably. If it was, Arya knew she was the most wretched thing that ever walked. Given half a chance, she’d murder the world for the slightest possibility it might prolong their time together, but the Gods didn’t smile down on Starks in such ways. She pulled away from Daenerys’s lips and turned her head toward the older woman, intending to reassure her but the sight of tears shining in her beautiful eyes froze her tongue and she had to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat. Taking advantage of the indecision Daenerys claimed her and the two shared a heated kiss. 

Arya kissed back, fully aware it would only make things worse. When it was over she slipped away. This time when Daenerys tried to keep her in bed, Arya tugged her way free. Sitting on the side of the bed she covered her face with her hands. 

“It doesn’t seem fair that we only get so little time,” she commented, doing what she could to appear casual. “Half a year isn’t very long.”

“Life rarely gives us what we think we deserve,” Arya said with clarity, aware of this lesson more than almost any other she’d learned in life. If a person was granted what they deserved, surely her path would have been different, wouldn’t it? The thought made her tense. 

Almost instantly she felt the tender touch of her lover’s roaming hands on her scarred shoulders and back, trying to ease her discomfort. Arya didn’t want to be cared for, she didn’t deserve it. None of this was meant for her. She stood and took a deliberate step out of Daenerys’s reach. Perhaps if she didn’t know the other woman quite so well, so intimately, she might have missed the subtle way her breath hitched when Arya refused her. That ignorance would have been a blessing. 

Even with ample evidence and plenty of practice it still amazed her how drastically things could change in such a short time. The night before felt like a lifetime ago. She’d been in the middle of a loud and raucous drinking game with Mormont soldiers when a deceptively strong hand gripped hers, pulled her away from her drink and into bed, all without a word. She’d gone willingly not nearly drunk enough to justify her actions. Behind the privacy of a closed door it was desperate and wild. Now that hunger was gone, replaced by only sadness and regret. They both knew what was coming. It turned her stomach. 

As she searched the floor for her discarded clothes she could feel the burn of fresh scratch marks. If that weren’t enough, there was a red blemish on her breast and she guessed another on the side of her neck, where Daenerys had lavished no shortage of attention. Under other circumstances it might have been possible to dismiss the markings as hasty, drunken lust gone awry, but Arya knew better. Daenerys’s every action was deliberate and purposeful, and this was no different. The Queen had branded her just as permanently as the House of Black and White once had. One more reminder of something she would never be able to forget. 

She kept her back to Daenerys as she dressed, listening to the quiet shuffling of the sheets as she moved on the bed alone. She was reaching for her boots when the Targaryen spoke again, destroying any hope that Arya might escape without further discussion. “I don’t want this.” 

While she didn’t mean for it to happen, a frustrated grunt slipped past her tightly closed lips without permission. Why? Why were they having this conversation again? They’d talked the subject to death for the past several weeks. Doing so again, right before they parted would only add salt to an already open wound, for the both of them. 

Annoyed as she was, she still couldn’t let Daenerys think she didn’t care, so she offered what little she could. Acceptance. “I know,” she said, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

She’d hoped her acknowledgement would be enough, but as it was with many other things, she was wrong. Somehow Daenerys took her reply as an opening. “I have to do this. It’s not what I want, but…”

This time when she growled in protest it wasn’t accidental. “I know,” she tried again, with force. 

And the truth was, she did know. She knew all the reasons they needed to do this. Why this night, this final encounter would be their last. Arya had told herself they were through before, but this time she had to mean it. For everyone’s sake. 

Westeros was in chaos, in no small part thanks to her. When she killed Walder Frey and all of his offspring she left the Twins ripe for Cersei to seize. She should have known better than to give the Lioness such an opportunity, but her hate had been her only concern at the time. Likewise, when she slit Littlefinger’s throat, to avenge her mother and father they lost a portion of support from the Vale. With him dead by her hand, many opposed her, regardless of how valid her motives. To make matters worse, Cersei had surrendered Casterly Rock with little resistance and took High Garden with its gold and grain instead. Lady Olenna was dead, Yara Greyjoy and Ellaria Sand were captured and likely being tortured if they too hadn’t gone off to meet their Gods. All of that and she had yet to consider the Night King. The Wall was understaffed, one of Daenerys’s dragons had been slain and an army approached. The Realm needed this, so she agreed, but logic held little sway. Needed or not, it wasn’t easy. 

Arya’s hand was on the door when Daenerys pushed the knife even further. “I could say ‘no’,” she proposed. 

A tiny flicker of hope lit in the deepest part of her and she hated it. Yes, it was true, Daenerys could refuse but then what? Between Bran and the Priestess, they’d told them in no uncertain terms what would happen next. The chaos they’d created would bloom into disaster and madness. Wars would start in each of the Seven Kingdoms and hundreds of thousands would die, including many she held dear. 

She should have kept going through the door as if she hadn’t heard, but foolishly she didn’t. She turned back and found Daenerys sitting on the bed, with streaks of tears running down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away. “It’s not that simple,” she said struggling to get the words out. “If you don’t…”

This time it was Daenerys who wasn’t interested in letting her finish. “We could find another way. There has to be another way!” she said, her volume rising with each word. “With Bran’s help we could find one, a better one.” 

If only it were that simple. If Daenerys only knew how many hours she spent with her crippled, all-seeing brother, searching the past, the present and every possible future they all held, hunting for a solution. As she grew more desperate in her attempts, the visions Bran saw became more and more horrific. He spoke of futures worse than her nightmares, ones she couldn’t let come to pass. “This is the only way,” she said, giving voice to her fear. “If we don’t go our separate ways now, people will die, too many people!”

In a blink Daenerys was off the bed, standing there with fire in her eyes, every bit a Dragon. “Maybe I could live with that!” she said as confidently as she could manage. To Arya’s ears it sounded forced and hollow and she was sure it was. Her voice lowered, and softened when she added, “Maybe that’s better than letting you go,” 

If only, Arya thought for the second time in less than a minute. If Daenerys were willing to tolerate the senseless deaths of innocents to get what she wanted, the wars would already be won. She could have stormed the Red Keep within days of making landfall in Westeros. Her dragons could have burned holes in the stones, killing soldiers and smallfolk alike and her armies of Dothraki savages and freed slaves could have flooded in to murder her enemies. Once she ruled the Seven Kingdoms she could have demanded the aid and armies of every house great and small and together they could have rid the world of the Undead forever, but she wouldn’t allow it. She refused to win at the expense of so many who didn’t ask for any of this. That was what would make her a good queen – a better queen than Cersei – once she had the throne, but it’s also why she wasn’t sitting on the damn chair of blades already. Her unwillingness to let people die for her was an admirable trait in a woman with intentions of governing, but a far less successful one in a warrior. 

Daenerys reached out and took her hand. When Arya didn’t snatch it back, she took this as an invitation to weave their fingers together. Shoulders sagged slightly, and she closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts in preparation for her first lie of the day. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said, even as the words tasted like acid on her lips. “This will bring victory, then peace and prosperity to the Realm and beyond. It’s what’s best for the people and for you.” 

Before she knew what was happening Arya was locked in a tight embrace. “I’m no so sure,” the Khaleesi mumbled against her chest. 

“It is,” she lied again, hoping it sounded more convincing to Daenerys than it did to her. “The Priestess says you’ll have a child, maybe more than one.” 

It was a dirty trick, using Daenerys’s desire to be a mother against her, but Arya was out of acceptable options. She needed to go before she lost the willpower to leave all together. If she didn’t flee soon, she’d surrender to Daenerys’s pleas and everyone they loved would pay for her weakness. 

“I don’t care about that!” she answered defiantly. Arya smiled against the pain she felt. Apparently, Daenerys was in the mood to lie too. 

She kissed the top of the Queen’s silver hair and savored its smell and silky feel. “Yes, you do,” she corrected. 

It took a moment, but Daenerys’s anger melted away, just as suddenly as it appeared. “Okay,” she acknowledged, “I do care, but just because I’m going to have a child doesn’t mean…”

This was another conversation they’d had repeatedly. So frequently in fact that Arya was certain Daenerys could speak every word from memory alone, just as surely as Arya herself could. She made the mistake of looking down just as Daenerys happened to peek up. When their eyes locked together Arya knew it was time. Her resistance was nearly gone. “I need to go,” she said as she pried herself away from the woman she adored. 

This time she managed to get the door open a crack before Daenerys’s flawless arm lashed out to slam it closed again. “Not yet,” she challenged. “Arya! Wait please.” 

In all her life, she’d never met another person who could shatter her with so little effort, so few words. A large part of her wanted to lock the door, wrap Daenerys in her arms and take her back to bed, consequences for the world be damned. She almost did, but mercifully or tragically, the choice was taken from her by Missandei’s arrival to prepare her Queen for the upcoming day. 

“Your Grace,” she said in greeting. Opening the door, she forced Daenerys and Arya to step aside to accommodate her entrance. Upon realizing Daenerys wasn’t alone, the advisor was immediately remorseful, eyes downcast. “I’m so sorry, your Grace…”

Arya took one final glance at Daenerys and saw her lips part as though she intended to speak. Arya needed to be first. “That’s alright Missandei,” she said as she commanded her head to turn away from Daenerys’s violet eyes. “I was just leaving.”

While she and Missandei danced together to make space between themselves, the door and an unmoving Daenerys, the naked Dragon tried to resist. “Arya, wait!” she called. “You don’t need to leave today, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she ploughed ahead. “You could…”

This was it, her last chance to salvage what they had, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sacrifice everything and everyone she loved for her own happiness. The Arya who recited her list of names at night, who prayed for the violent, painful deaths of all those who wronged her, she might have stayed, but in their short time together Daenerys had taught her a different way. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, for so much more than just her leaving, “but I need to be a hundred miles away before tomorrow.”

“Why?” Daenerys asked childishly, although the reason was rather obvious. 

“Because,” she justified. “I can’t stand beside the Weirwood Tree where we first met and watch you marry my brother.” 

R-C


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: So, I’ve decided to give this a real shot and try and make a full-length story out of it. I’m interested to see if I can salvage a happy ending when I started things from such a difficult place. The reunion between Arya and Daenerys won’t be quick or easy, but I promise it’ll happen. I hope the flashbacks are enough to make up for them being apart until then. 
> 
> Let me know what you think – even I have my doubts about this one. 
> 
> Thanks and Enjoy  
> RC

Her eyes darted to the door Arya escaped through. It was a long shot, but she hoped to find her lingering in the hallway, unable to go far despite her words. The hall was empty, and the void left in her absence was immense. Without thought Daenerys filled that space with rage. She gripped the knob with both hands and swung it back toward its home with as much power as she could create. It settled against the frame with a thud. In a thought reminiscent of her dead brother she was glad someone else was hurting as much as she was, even if it was only a fucking door. The comparison between her and Viserys dulled her anger. She didn’t want to be anything like him. They may have shared blood, and a name but that’s where Daenerys wanted the similarities to end. 

Missandei pulled her from her thoughts by speaking. “I’m so sorry, your Grace, I should have knocked. I should have…”

Daenerys did her best to smile, a considerable accomplishment given the constant flow of tears still pouring down her face. She felt no shame in having Missandei see her cry. She’d never had a truer friend. Few secrets remained between them, fewer now that she knew of Arya. “It’s not your fault,” she assured her quickly. Though few things made sense just then, she was certain of that. Missandei was not the reason Arya was gone. The blame for her current situation rested on her shoulders and hers alone. She’d done this and no one else. “She was going to leave whether you arrived or not,” Daenerys confessed more to herself than the advisor. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, moving closer and reaching out. Daenerys accepted the gesture glad to have the company, although she was immediately struck by how wrong the hand felt in hers. The long thin fingers were too smooth, too soft. She ached for the calloused, rough feel of Arya’s skin. 

“It’s alright Missandei,” she said, echoing some of the last words she heard Arya speak before she disappeared. “We couldn’t hide away in here forever. Sooner or later the world was going to come calling.” 

For a few long seconds neither said anything. They stood there, Missandei in a silk dress of shining silver, contrasting beautifully with her rings of dark hair and Daenerys, the Queen, a crying, naked mess, just as she’d been when she entered the world. “I could go and get her,” Missandei offered, “she couldn’t have gotten far.”

A tempting proposal if ever Daenerys had heard one, but a pointless gesture, kind as it was. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, future Queen of all Seven Kingdoms, the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons and even she couldn’t make Arya do anything she didn’t want to. She looked out the window and noticed how high the sun was in the sky. She’d postponed Arya’s departure even longer than she realized. “Fetch the water,” Daenerys instructed, moving to the corner of the room that held the tub. “I need to get cleaned up before Tyrion comes looking for me.” 

Her expression was one of uncertainty. Daenerys could tell she had something or perhaps more than one she wanted to say or ask, but like the loyal friend she was, Missandei ducked her head and smiled gently. “Of course, your Grace.” 

R-C

“Come to say goodbye?” Bran asked in a loud, clear voice before she stepped through the final trees and into the clearing. As he often did these days, he sat in his chair under the Weirwood Tree, staring at nothing and seeing everything. 

She tried to keep things light. Leaving would be difficult enough without painful goodbyes. “Do you always ask questions you already know the answer to?”

He rewarded her attempt with a true smile, a rare occurrence. It reminded her of the boy he’d been before the fall, always laughing, joking, running and climbing. He was different now, but still ever bit her brother and she loved him. “Yes.”

She chuckled. That was probably the largest understatement she’d ever heard. “You aren’t going to ask me to stay, convince me leaving is wrong?” she wondered warily. 

He didn’t blink, or even look at her, just continued to stare. “It wouldn’t work,” he said. That was true. Her mind was made up and nothing could change it, not Bran, or Jon or Daenerys. “Are you going to tell Sansa you’re leaving?” he asked after a delay. 

Arya suspected he knew the answer to this question as well. “She wouldn’t understand. She’d tell me to stay. She’d want me to advise Jon or train the army from behind Winterfell’s walls. That’s not who I am.”

“I know.” There was another pause and Arya thought the subject closed. “She might surprise you, if you give her a chance.” 

“Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I’ll return one day, if I can.” While she and Sansa had never had an easy relationship, Arya did care for her sister deeply. She had no desire to harm her needlessly, especially now that they were going to be separated again. 

“Will you?”

She shrugged to answer, unsure of if he was looking at her now, or another time and place all together. “Maybe, when things settle.” 

“And Jon?” he asked, just as she was preparing to end their farewell. 

“It’s better if I go,” she said in a rush. “Jon understands that. It’ll be better for everyone once I’m gone. Easier.”

“Not for Daenerys,” Bran contested. 

At the mention of her lover, Arya thought back to their meeting, in this very spot. So much had changed since that night, and so much hadn’t. An image of Daenerys came to the forefront of her mind and stayed there, no matter how strenuously she tried to push it away. She loved her brother, but there were somethings she didn’t want to discuss with anyone, even him. “Goodbye Bran.”

R-C

It was just a simple meeting, not unlike the ones she’d held hundreds of times before. All around her both standing and sitting were her commanders and advisors, each offering opinions and counsel on the next step in their greater plans. As with any group of this size, there were multiple conversations happening at the same time, voices layering one on top of the next. Normally she found the bickering oddly soothing, but today it pressed down against her last nerve and her patience was already thin. Generally, she felt it was her duty to keep things on the proper path, maintain order and settle disputes before they got out of hand, but she couldn’t be bothered this time. 

“Nothing is more important than the wedding,” Tyrion was saying, his loud voice overpowering Jorah’s with ease, regardless of his stature. “Once Daenerys and Jon are wed, the Northern Lords will join us. Their forces, combined with ours will force Cersei to negotiate.”

“The Lannister Queen doesn’t desire peace,” one of Grey Worms Unsullied said. 

“Cersei’s desires will matter little, she won’t have a large enough army to fight us.”

“The Northmen are will be too busy preparing for the Night King,” Jorah said in argument. “They won’t offer their troops to us no matter who their King marries.”

Tyrion shook his head, as though he was speaking to a child, forced to repeat himself for the fifth time. “We don’t need the troops to march South,” he explained. “Knowing they are with us will be enough.”

“What about Yara and Ellaria?” Missandei questioned. “They are allies and their armies won’t join us until they are returned. We might consider rescuing them.”

“They’re already dead,” Jorah said in opposition. “Cersei Lannister isn’t known for her kindness or mercy.”

“Mormont’s right,” Tyrion agreed, sounding almost disappointed to have to.

“We could try,” Missandei pushed. “It might earn us favor with their respective kingdoms, even if we fail.” 

“It’s a fool’s errand,” Tyrion decided. “Yara is in her uncle’s custody and Lady Sand is in King’s Landing already. Unless we intend a full-scale assault on the capitol it’d be suicide to even consider it. 

“We must strike here,” Grey Worm said, using his finger to point to a spot on the map. Daenerys lifted out of her seat slightly to see where exactly he was referring to and saw he meant the Twins. 

“A worthy goal, there are few pieces of land more strategically valuable than those,” Tyrion said casually before he sipped his wine, “and if Walder Frey still held them, I’d say it was worth a try but thanks to the Stark, he died before we were ready.” Daenerys’s who had been paying only marginal attention to the complaints and arguments now focused intently at the mention of Arya. “The Twins is loaded with Lannister troops, as well as the remainder of Frey loyalists it’d be a bloody battle. One we can’t afford right now. Besides,” he continued, “before the Northmen are fully committed, it would a mistake to provoke my sister by starting a skirmish.” 

Mention of the Twins brought Daenerys’s thoughts to Arya, although she’d thought of little else since the younger woman left the bedroom hours earlier. Not knowing where Arya was, was bad enough but it was made worse by the knowledge that it was possible she might never see her again. 

All at once, the pretense of pretending she cared was too much. She stood from her chair and the voices stopped as those around her took notice. “Enough!” she shouted. 

“What would you have us do Khaleesi?” Jorah asked from her left. 

“Leave!” she answered, her voice hard as Valyrian steel. 

“Your Grace?”

“Go!” she demanded. “Everyone out!” 

Shock rippled through the room like a stone on a lake and slowly one by one the men she trusted with her life filed out. Before long only the few closest to her remained. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t look at him, choosing instead to stare out the window at the setting sun. How far could Arya have gone since the morning? “I meant what I said, I want to be alone!” The departing footsteps proved they heard her. Her voice was bitter and cold as she finished. “Tyrion, leave the wine!”

R-C

She didn’t know how long she sat alone in the dark. It could have been hours or days. Either way it didn’t seem important. Tyrion had left the wine behind, but she hadn’t bothered to make use of it. No amount of drink could fix things. 

When the knock came, it was light and almost tentative. She knew instantly who it was. “Enter,” she said to her future husband. 

Jon came in, a strained look on his otherwise handsome face. He’d been attractive and kind enough to appeal to her before she met Arya, but now? Now she wasn’t quite sure what she saw in him. His eyes, so much like hers, weren’t quite the right stormy color to excite her, and his hands were far too large. She remembered the feeling as she kissed him, the hair on his face rubbing coarsely against her skin. And while he had scars, she had no desire to trace them as she did so often with Arya’s, to learn their source and hear the tale of how he earned them. No, none of this was right at all. 

“Rough day?” he asked, trying to make her smile. He failed. 

“You could say that,” she admitted, finally looking away from the window. He gave her a sad, understanding smile as he came closer. “Did you see her go?” Daenerys asked as he pulled back the chair Tyrion left and sat. 

As it did for her, mention of Arya seemed to magnify his anguish and she could see it on his face. Just like with the door that morning, she was glad others hurt too. Petty as it was. “I saw her off from the stables,” he confessed in a hoarse whisper. 

“Did you try and stop her?!” Daenerys shouted, her voice echoing around the large, nearly empty room. “You should have commanded her to stay! She would have listened to you. You’re her King, her brother!”

Jon shook his head. “It wouldn’t have done any good. She made up her mind.” Unlike her, he seemed all too willing to have a drink. He poured them each a glass and drank from his greedily. “She made her choice. We have to respect it.”

She glared defiantly at the man she would pledge herself to in the morning. “Is that what we’re meant to do?” she asked snidely. 

Setting down his cup he folded his hands together. She noticed the way he squeezed them as if he were trying to maintain control. “I couldn’t force her. Knowing how she feels, it would be cruel to make her stay and watch. I won’t do that to her.”

Daenerys had little interest in his excuses. “So, there is something you’re unwilling do?” she spat. “How noble.” 

Her rudeness was uncalled for and she knew it. Jon hadn’t created their situation. She’d done that herself. If she wanted someone to blame, she need only find her reflection in any of Winterfell’s windows or one of Lady Sansa’s large mirrors. Deep down she didn’t wish Jon ill, he just had the misfortune of being the one to come looking when she was in the foulest of moods. 

“I didn’t ask Arya to go!” he said, standing up from his chair. He pushed his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture she noticed he had and then continued, “I didn’t ask her to leave and I’m not forcing you to marry me,” he stated correctly. “We decided together. It was our decision and Arya chose to honor it, just as we must honor hers to go.”

Even if he was right, she didn’t like it being pointed out. “You should have stopped her,” she said in a low voice, filling the words with all the energy she had left. 

“It wouldn’t have work,” he admitted, returning to his chair. “We both know that.” He surprised her by smiling as he shook his head. “Even when she was a girl, it took an act of the Gods to force Arya to do anything she didn’t want to do. Her mother and the Septa would have to chase her down just to get her to finish her lessons. She snuck out every chance she got to play in the yard with her brothers and I.”

Daenerys’s damaged heart, broke all over again as she could all too easily picture a miniature version of Arya running around Winterfell, fighting imaginary battles and swinging a wooden sword. Tears she thought she’d run dry of, threatened to begin anew. “Don’t!” she demanded harshly. 

Jon’s smile vanished, and he turned his attention to her fully. “What? I was just…”

“I know what you were trying to do. Don’t!”

Confused, he gave her a slow once over before he asked, “You don’t want to know about Arya?” His voice was tainted with disbelief. 

With no energy to muster a lie, she told the whole truth, rough and horrible as it was. “I do. I want nothing more. I want to hear every story, every opinion and every detail, but not from you. I want to hear it from her.”

For the second time in their brief encounter Jon stood. “I…I…”

As he fumbled over his words, unsure of what to say or do in response to her admission, she set him free. “Go Jon, enjoy your night. In the morning I’ll do what is best, for your people and mine. Tomorrow I’ll marry you, but tonight leave me be.”

She returned to staring out the window. She began counting the stars from her seat and took a sliver of joy from the fact that Arya, wherever she was, was under the same sky. She didn’t turn away until long after the door closed behind him. 

R-C

“Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” she pleaded to Missandei as she looked down at the dress she was to be married in. 

“You’re doing a good thing,” she replied. Daenerys didn’t miss the slight difference and knew that her friend, who was a master of languages wouldn’t make such an error. 

“But?” she prodded. 

“But nothing, your Grace. You are doing a good thing, putting the needs and best interests of your people before yourself. They will remember this and praise you for your generosity,” she answered, sounding supremely confident. 

“Will they?” she wondered. “Most of the people will never know me, not really. They won’t know what I’ve given up for them today and even if they did, would they care?” Her questions didn’t have answers, at least not good ones but she was feeling sentimental. Standing in the last place she was with Arya, looking at the bed where they’d made love, it had her doubting every choice she’d made to get to this place. 

“I’ll know,” Missandei promised. “I’ll remember, and I’ll care. Together we’ll tell this story to your sons and daughters and they’ll know what you sacrificed for them and for everyone else.” 

Just when she was certain nothing short of Arya’s sudden return could brighten her mood, Missandei somehow managed it. She threw herself into the advisor’s arms and squeezed her as tightly as she dared. “Thank you!” she said earnestly. She set her lips against the dark-haired woman’s ear and whispered, “I’m so lucky you’re here.”

When they separated Missandei looked down shyly. “I’ll prepare the water for your bath if you want to take a few minutes and collect your thoughts.” 

She hadn’t considered sneaking away but now that the thought was in her head, it sounded too good to pass up. In too short a time she’d have to put on a smiling face and play the part of the happy bride, but not yet. For a few minutes more she could still be herself. “That sounds perfect. I’ll be back shortly.” 

“Take your time.”

In the hall, before she had the chance to choose which direction to turn she nearly bumped into Bran and his odd chair. “Lord Stark, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” 

As she apologized she blushed, certain her face could rival Sansa’s hair in brightness. He looked perfectly unbothered by the near accident. She immediately took note of his fine clothes, wedding clothes. His hair had been recently cut and the thin layer of stubble that dotted his face the last time she’d seen him was gone. When he didn’t speak she looked behind him, expecting to see one of his siblings or perhaps a servant, pushing his chair for him, but he was alone. “Are you well?” she asked him. “Do you need help? Who left you here?”

When the reply came he answered none of her questions nor addressed the fact that she nearly knocked him down in her rush. “Three doors that way,” he said holding his arm to the right, “that was Arya’s room, when they were children,” he explained as though she’d asked. 

She was just about to ask again if he needed her aid when the pieces came together for her. He hadn’t been left there, he chose that spot, likely aware Daenerys was going to come rushing out. He was waiting for her, to tell her which room had been Arya’s. She didn’t know why, but she guessed he had a reason. “Thank you,” she said honestly. “When you’re ready to leave, call for Missandei and she’ll ensure you get wherever you’d like.”

He gave her a smile, the first she’d earned from him. “That’s quite alright. The servant will be back shortly to get me.”

Of course, he knew when someone would be coming back. How silly of her. 

The room Bran directed her to, was a riddle within itself. The space was very deliberately cut in half. On one side there was a perfectly made bed, a beautifully crafted mirror and a chest of drawers. The shelves were lined with immaculately organized books and bright, colorful trinkets covered the tabletop. The closet was partially open revealing all manner of dresses and the accompanying furs to protect the wearer from the cold. Opposite that, was another bed, unmade, and unruly. There was no closet, no collection of polished baubles or well-maintained books, just a handful of clothes littering the floor and a wall, under the window, spotted with nicks and cuts, as though someone had been sharpening a blade on the edges of the stones. Then, she understood. Arya must have shared this room with Sansa as a child. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain which side was hers. She crossed over all the pretty things and knelt on the floor to trace her fingers over the marks. She could picture Arya slashing and hacking away at the wall to pass the time. It made her smile. She’d have to thank Bran for this, this was the closest to Arya and the most at peace she felt since the Northern woman left. 

Without thought for how strange it might seem to others she laid down on the bed, on Arya’s bed, and pressed the pillow to her lips. The scent was still there, verifying she’d found the right place. She rolled on to her back, holding the pillow close and as she did she heard a distinct crinkle. Curious she rolled over, to find a single page, folded twice into a tight square. It looked as if it had been torn from a book of some kind. She couldn’t help it, she unfolded it. It was wrong to violate Arya’s privacy, but she’d apologize for that later, if or when she saw her again. For now, she needed to know what it was. The messy writings could be the work of only one person she’d ever known. When she read the first word and saw her name, her heart doubled speed in her chest. 

Daenerys,

I’m not sure when you’ll find this exactly, but I know eventually you will. Sooner or later, you’ll coming looking for one thing or another and I trust you’ll stumble upon this. I’m not very good with words, but for you I’ll try. 

From the day my father died, I wanted only one thing – revenge. I dreamt about it, I prayed for it and I trained hard, so I’d be ready when the time came. I didn’t think there was anything else for me, until I met you. For the first time since I was a girl, I wanted more. Thanks to you, I remember peace. If you forget everything else, know I’ll always be grateful for that.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I just wasn’t strong enough. I wanted to be, so I could remain with you, but you deserve the chance to be happy. You couldn’t do that with Jon and I fighting over you. It doesn’t matter how long I’m gone, where I go, or what happens in the time we’re apart, I want only good things for you. 

Tell my niece or nephew I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to meet them, but I’ll see you all again someday, in this life or the next. 

\- Arya

Any hope she had of holding back tears evaporated by the time she’d reached the bottom. For a woman who claimed she lacked skill with words, she did a pretty spectacular job. Daenerys couldn’t imagine a more heartfelt, sincere letter of love and to think it was written for her made it priceless.

“Are you alright, your Grace?” Sansa asked from the doorway. Daenerys hastily folded the letter to the condition she found it and stuffed it down the front of her dress before she roughly wiped away the remainder of her tears. 

When she sat up, she found Sansa standing there, holding a long green dress in one hand. Her hair had already been styled and she’d clearly just come from a bath. “I’m sorry Lady Stark, I didn’t mean to intrude I was just,” she paused to think up a lie. “I lent your sister a ribbon to tie back that unruly hair of hers and I thought she might have left it in here. I apologize, I should have asked.”

Setting the dress down on the foot of her bed carefully Sansa came closer. Like Daenerys she looked over Arya’s things and the Queen could see the anguish Sansa felt, having to lose Arya all over again. With a shake of her head, she cleared away the negative thoughts and smiled. “Take all the time you need, you deserve to look perfect for the wedding. I’ll help you, knowing Arya the damn thing could be anywhere.”

The Queen smiled. She did know Arya, and despite what she said, she’d already found everything she was looking for and more. “That’s quite alright,” she answered. “Seeing you just reminded me how far behind I already am. I should be going to get ready. I’m sure Missandei is waiting for me.” 

“You’re the bride,” Sansa reminded her, without realizing how it would hurt to have it pointed out. “Take your time, they can’t very well have your wedding without you.”

She laughed along, although her portion was more than a little forced. “Thank you, Lady Stark,” she said as she headed for the door. 

“Call me Sansa,” she commented kindly as she bent over her chest of drawers. “We are going to be sisters after all.” 

“That is very kind, thank you Sansa and again I’m sorry for the intrusion.” 

“Wait!” she yelled straightening up from her task. “I know it’s not the ribbon you lent to Arya, but this one would look beautiful with your dress and I’m sure Jon will love it.” 

In her palm was a length of silk, with the top portion a pearly, flawless white, the bottom a black as dark as midnight and in the center a thin streak of grey that reminded her too much of the one Stark who wouldn’t be with her today. “It’s perfect,” she said as she accepted it. 

R-C

She was in the bath, wishing secretly that she could stay in there forever and postpone what was due to happen next. She was already late, but as Sansa said, no matter how delayed she was, it wouldn’t change the outcome. 

“Tell me of Arya,” Missandei said in a quiet voice, surprising her Queen. 

“What?” She wasn’t sure she heard that request correctly. 

“Not of how you feel now, or what will happen later, just tell me of her. Of your time together.” Daenerys didn’t know what to say. How could she possibly explain the mystery that was Arya to anyone else. It was further complicated by the fact that Daenerys was quite certain she’d seen a side of the woman few others do. She saw what was hidden under the harsh exterior, the rough words and the scarred skin. She got to know the heart underneath. Her thoughts must have taken her away for too long because Missandei misinterpreted the pause. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said in a rush. “I just thought you’d like to…”

“I would,” Daenerys admitted. “It’d be nice to have to someone to talk with her about. I’m just not sure what to say exactly. We spent many hours together and I feel like I know little more now than I did the day we met.”

“Tell me of that day,” Missandei suggested as she dried her hands. “When…” she stopped and chose a different set of words. “I heard you and Arya speaking. She said you met next to the tree in the forest, the one with the face?”

Daenerys smiled as she remembered. “The Weirwood Tree, the Northerners pray to the Old Gods there. Yes,” she recalled, “that’s where I first laid eyes on Arya.”

“What happened?”

Daenerys went back in her mind and told the story as if it had happened yesterday.

R-C

Six and a Half Months Before the Wedding

It had been only days since she saw the army of White Walkers with her own eyes. She had granted Jon’s request to mine the dragonglass and make his weapons, but she hadn’t truly believed. Now that she knew, she wished she could forget. She saw the Night King and his thousands of soldiers and she’d been there to see another one of her children die. She wasn’t an invalid, she knew dragons could be killed, she’d seen them when they were small, and weak, before they could fly or breathe fire. She knew they weren’t indestructible and yet she allowed herself to hope they’d live long past her brief life. What more could any mother want for her children? 

It may have been a foolish gesture, but she wanted to find the body and return it to the fire from which it hatched. She wanted to set it aflame until it was nothing but ash on the wind and she could, with Drogon’s help. 

That’s why she’d been there, high above the clouds, flying North of the Wall. She’d been searching for the remains of a dead dragon. This was a secret she shared with no one of course. They wouldn’t understand. They’d pretend to, but they couldn’t. To even those closest to her, those who had seen the dragons grow and helped care for them, they were only beasts, winged demons from an age all but lost, but for Daenerys they’d always be more. It was her dragons that gave her a sense of direction when the man she loved and the child she wanted more than anything were stolen from her. They’d given her so much, the least she could do in return is ensure the fallen didn’t rot or freeze alone. 

For hours she searched, until it was difficult to see anything in the dark. Forced to give up she circled back around, heading for the warmth of Winterfell. It was on that return voyage that she saw a flicker on the ground, a tiny spot of orange in a sea of black and white. There weren’t any homes, no towns or settlements nearby, there was only the forest and Winterfell still several minutes by flight. It was part curiosity and part concern that made her swoop down for a closer look. Was that person lost? Was it one of those she thought killed by the Undead? Or could it be one of the Undead themselves, sent to scout ahead for the rest who followed behind? If it was one of the Night King’s minions, she would gladly burn it and watch the flames eat the bones.

As she dropped lower, she could see the shape of a person, not one of the dead, but living, like her. The torch that provided the limited light and the spot of orange she’d first seen remained unmoved even as Drogon landed. 

The ground shook with the weight of the dragon resting upon it. He flattened more than one tree as he settled and still the figure and the torch remained. Satisfied it wasn’t one of the Undead she grew more concerned. Why would anyone be so far from home so late at night and all alone. It surely meant trouble. 

“Are you hurt?” Daenerys called over the whistling wind as she tightened her furs around her shoulders. “Are you hurt,” she shouted louder when she got no reply, moving closer. “If you’re in need, I can get you help. You must be frozen. Here,” she said taking off her fur and immediately questioning her sanity. She shivered but she could take it. She was a Queen and she was positive whoever this was, needed it more than her. 

“Keep your furs Daenerys,” the voice said without looking at her. She took another step closer. She didn’t recognize the voice, but it was hard to hear over the wind. “You Southerners always get so frantic at the first bit of blowing snow.” 

“Do I know you?” she asked, more than a little annoyed that her attempt to be generous resulted in insults. 

“No,” the voice said. 

Finally, after what felt like a mile but was really only feet she reached the torch and got her first glimpse at the stranger. She originally thought the wanderer even shorter than her but now she could see the lack of height was because she was kneeling. “You said my name.” Finally surrendering to the weather, she wrapped the fur around her again. If this person wasn’t going to use it, she definitely could. 

The reply came, sounding like the person was enjoying a joke at her expense. “Only one woman I know rides dragons.” With these words Daenerys realized she was speaking to a woman. Before that, she thought the wind had been tainting her hearing. Why would any woman be out alone at night, in the trees?

“Since you know me, would you do me the pleasure of introducing yourself? I’d like to confirm for myself that you’re alright.”

The stranger sighed as if the Queen’s request was nothing more than an inconvenience. She rose to her feet and pushed back her hood. Fresh fallen snow clung to the edges of her dark hair and glistened by the firelight. “I’m perfectly fine and don’t require any assistance. I’m exactly where I need to be.”

As a general rule people were wary when they first met her. Stories about her both true and false were passed back and forth from one side of the Narrow Sea to the other. Even those who didn’t like her were wise enough to fear her in some fashion, but not this woman. She stared at her as if there was nothing unusual about their situation. Even those brave enough to challenge her were uncertain at the sight of Drogon but again, not this one. Daenerys studied her closer, trying to understand. She noticed the lift on the corner of her lip as if she were fighting back a smile, and it was hard to miss the gruesome looking scar that divided her face, narrowly missing her eye on its way toward her chin. “What are you doing out here? Are you alone?”

The woman turned her attention to the tree she’d been facing when Daenerys arrived. She pointed to it with her chin. “Have you heard of the Weirwood, your Grace?”

Finally, some sign of acknowledgement. Even so, Daenerys couldn’t help the feeling that her title wasn’t said with respect. Rather it sounded like she was a frustrated parent addressing a misbehaving child. “Of course,” she said crossing her arms. 

She knelt again, returning to the position Daenerys found her in. “Prayers for the wicked, that’s why I’m here.”

Questions burned on her tongue, but she tried to resist asking them, partially because she didn’t want to appear unknowing and also because if this was a place of prayer she wanted to show tolerance, even if she didn’t believe as this woman did. She didn’t last very long. “The wicked, who do you mean?”

The delay nearly drove her to madness. To keep warm in the meantime she shuffled from foot to foot, wondering if she should expect any answer at all from this odd Northerner. “I killed many men this week,” she said naturally before she again faced the Targaryen. “Nearly a dozen all told.”

“And they were wicked?” Daenerys heard herself ask, as she worked desperately to hide her surprise at the admission. It wasn’t normal for people to confess their sins to the Queen without being forced. 

“Most assuredly,” she answered, “but the prayers are for me and my soul, the bandits are already lost, sent to the Many Faced God.” 

“I see,” she said, even though she didn’t. She hated to admit it, but she didn’t understand much of what was happening, no matter how she tried. 

“What are you doing out here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Daenerys said in challenge. “A little late for prayer isn’t it?”

Before she responded the woman looked down at her hands, causing Daenerys’s eyes to follow. By the flickering torch she noticed the stains, the blood. “Killing bandits is long work. It gets done when its done and not a second before.” 

Each word added strain to her limited patience. Who was this woman and what was going on? “Tell me your name. Who are you? What of the men you’ve killed? Where are their bodies?”

“Burned,” she said, answering only the question she wanted to. “Can’t have them coming back to serve the Night King can we, your Grace?”

Just like before, the title was said with the slightest hint of something she couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a positive association, of that she was certain. “You know of the Night King?” Hadn’t Jon said most people thought the White Walkers nothing more than a children’s story? 

“The King in the North speaks of him,” she said plainly. 

Finally, they were getting somewhere. “You know Jon Snow, then?”

“We’ve met,” she said, her lip twitching in that way of hers. 

“Do you live near Winterfell? I was on my way back there, and I can take you if you like. It’s much faster to fly than walk,” she offered. 

“I’m where I need to be.” 

Daenerys had reached her limit. “Tell me who you are,” she demanded, “or I’ll summon the guards.”

The amused expression she wore made Daenerys itch to slap her. Who did she think she was? She couldn’t treat her in such a way. She was a Queen, she was a Dragon and she deserved better, even if she wasn’t a favorite of the Northern people. If she wanted to slap her before, when she spoke next Daenerys wanted to do much worse. “Give me one good reason.”

“Excuse me?”

This time the smirk wasn’t contained, the smug expression stretched across her damaged face. “A reason. Name one reason why I should tell you who I am.” 

Daenerys was speechless. How dare she!? To make matters worse she didn’t have a reason to know, not a good one anyway and none that she’d say to this brute of a woman. “I’m your Queen,” she announced when all other routes failed her. 

The laughter she heard over the wind cut deep. “By the Gods, please tell me you needed more than that reason to get my brother in your bed!”

Daenerys was enraged. She closed the space between them intent on taking action but then the words reached her mind and she nearly toppled over. What brother? “Your brother?” 

In a flash the difficult stranger was on one knee in the snow, head bowed, the absolute picture of loyalty and honor. “The King in the North your Grace, Jon Snow is my brother. I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

R-C

As she ended her story, Missandei was doubled over in a fit of laughter. “You didn’t know?” she asked, when she could manage to push the words out. 

Her attempts to appear bothered by Missandei’s response failed and she too began to chuckle. In hindsight she really could see how funny it all was, even if it hadn’t seemed so then. “Like everyone else I thought Arya Stark was dead. I only wanted to help a lost traveller. How was I to know she was…” she didn’t know how to finish that statement. What was Arya exactly? So many things. She shook her head, leaving the thought unfinished. “And that was the first time I met Arya,” she concluded, sadness entering her words for the first time since the topic came up. 

“But not the last.”

After another chuckle, Daenerys agreed. “No, that was definitely not the last I saw of her.” 

R-C

When it couldn’t be postponed any longer Daenerys let Missandei lead her out of the privacy of her chambers and down the hall. As she passed the staff working to prepare for the feast and celebration that would follow all stopped what they were doing and knelt before her. This was unexpected. Before she’d been a Southern Queen, ally or not, now she was about to become the wife to their King. For the Northerners that changed things greatly. Which is precisely why Tyrion urged her to do it, why Jon was willing and why she accepted. If wars were won with sound strategy and shrewd tactics this one made a lot of sense. Cersei might have been reckless enough to attack her other allies, to have Olenna murdered, to kidnap Yara and Ellaria, but after today she’d need to tread more carefully. Once she was sworn to Jon, angering him would put the Lannister Queen at odds with her largest kingdom. The North didn’t accept her rule, but they weren’t openly hostile. Their concerns were largely focused North of the Wall and the other war that waited for them. It would be a harder road for Cersei to walk to keep their focus off King’s Landing. 

Tyrion met her just inside the exit. He offered her his arm like a gentleman and she took it with a smile. He looked dashing in his black pants, his blood red shirt and the Hand of the Queen pin she’d given him before they left Essos. “Ready for this?” 

“No,” she said truthfully before she regretted it. 

His steps halted, and he twisted to look at her with worry. “Second thoughts?”

Second thoughts were so very far behind her now. It wasn’t too late to back out, but if she did, the pain that was piercing her heart with every beat wouldn’t go. Arya would still be gone and without the added security of the Northern armies surviving the two impending wars would become much more treacherous. “Just tell me I’m doing the right thing, for my people, for Westeros,” she said, seeking reassurance. 

“This is good for Westeros Daenerys, you’ll be a fine Queen and Jon will be lucky to have you.” For a time, they just looked at each other, both of them trying to decide what to say next, if anything. “You look beautiful,” he eventually added. 

That was what she needed to hear, the first part at least. Jon knew what Tyrion didn’t, that their marriage was to be little more than an arrangement. She allowed herself a moment to be proud of her ability to keep her affair with Arya hidden from her Hand. She was certain he knew from the start, but if he did he was holding the secret well. “Thank you, Tyrion.”

Outside, the sun was shining. A warm day by Northern standards. Grey Worm joined Missandei for the trip to the Weirwood. Carts were waiting to carry them and everyone else was supposed to be there already.

The ceremony was to be an odd mix of the Old Gods and the New. The large group of guests and the Septon would satisfy the Southern nobles and the location under the Weirwood Tree would please those who favored the ancient ways. 

The ride was silent, almost painfully so and Daenerys wasn’t the only one to sense it. “Well this is awkward,” Tyrion remarked as they rode behind a combined contingent of Unsullied and Northmen, a preview of the union they’d all come to witness. 

“Relax Tyrion,” Daenerys told him as she reached out and cleared a speck of dirt from his shirt. “Just keep your eyes on Sansa and you’ll be fine. I saw the dress she intends to wear, and I’d wager she’ll look stunning.”

More than pleased to have something else to think about, she savored seeing the dwarf squirm as he blushed. So few things could illicit such a reaction from him, but Sansa was one. One night, before they set sail he admitted after too many drinks how he had come to care for the woman who despised him. After hearing how she was arranged first for his deranged nephew and then Tyrion in an attempt to manipulate and tame her family she could understand why Sansa would hold a grudge but after meeting her, speaking with her and seeing them interact Daenerys didn’t get the sense that Sansa blamed Tyrion for any of it. Many times, while she was waiting for an opportunity to sneak away with Arya, Daenerys saw Tyrion and Sansa huddled together talking quietly. When she did, the eldest Stark daughter laughed often, and turned her typically cynical friend downright bashful. The longer they stayed in Winterfell, the more certain she became she wasn’t the only one who would find love there. Regardless of the outcome for her, Daenerys was happy for him. He deserved something good after all he’d suffered. 

Her tensions built the closer they came to their destination. Missandei knew as she always did and left her seat on the bench next to Grey Worm, coming to kneel in front of the Queen. “Missandei,” she chastised. “Get up, you’ll ruin your dress.”

The dress in question was made of flowing silk, dyed blood red, and left one shoulder bare. As it did on Targaryen banners the color was offset perfectly by her dark skin and hair. The garment was a mirror image of the one Daenerys herself wore except the bride was in off-white. “Damn the dress,” Missandei said in High Valyrian to limit the number of people who would understand the exchange. “When this is finished,” she whispered as the cart handled the final curve. “You’ll need to tell me what happened next. How she went from the stranger in the snow to the woman who claimed your heart.”

“Later,” Daenerys promised, feeling something similar to relief to finally have someone to share her thoughts with. Jon knew, and Bran too but before Missandei walked in on them together that had been the entirety of the knowledge. She wasn’t close enough to Bran to discuss things with him and her relationship with Jon was complicated enough, so she had been suffering alone. 

When they climbed out of the cart Tyrion again offered her his arm. Sansa was waiting, standing behind Bran’s chair. She was right, Lady Stark looked wonderful. She glanced at Tyrion and noticed him unable to take his eyes off her. Her red hair was loose down her back and she wore a shawl that matched the snow across her shoulders. She was preparing to kneel when Daenerys reached out a hand to stop her. “Don’t,” she instructed, “your dress.” Sansa nodded, bowing her head instead. 

“Your Grace,” she said, “you look radiant.” Daenerys’s long hair was held in place by the ribbon Sansa had given her and the Stark took note. 

“Sansa, so do you and please call me Daenerys. We’re to become family now.”

She looked down at herself and then back at the bride. “Today is your day not mine,” she said sounding almost regretful, though she hid it well. 

Daenerys nudged her Hand as subtly as she could. “Doesn’t Sansa look nice Tyrion?”

His mouth gaped open like a fish out of water for several moments. “I… beautiful,” he stammered. 

“Yes, she does,” Daenerys agreed. “Why don’t you escort her to her seat and I’ll be right behind you.” Sansa’s eyes looked to Bran and he nodded in agreement. “I’ll ensure Bran is taken to his place as well, I would just like a word with him before we begin.” 

Grey Worm led Missandei toward the tree, and Tyrion guided Sansa. Only a single Unsullied remained behind to help Bran after they were through. He said nothing, even after they were alone, choosing to wait for her. She squatted down and placed her hand on his. “Thank you,” she said kindly before she set a kiss on his cheek. She thought of the letter he’d helped her to find, the same one that was tucked away inside her dress at this very second. “I found exactly what I was looking for.”

He nodded. “I’m glad. She wants you to be happy, don’t doubt that.”

Remembering the words Arya wrote for her, she caught herself smiling. “I don’t.” She patted his hand with hers once before waving over the soldier to take him. 

When they were gone only Daenerys was missing from her wedding. She’d never been religious. Still, she didn’t begrudge others their faith and during the time she spent with Arya, she grew to see an odd symmetry to the world, a serene beauty that made her question what she always thought she knew. Strange that an assassin would be the one to bring her closer to the Gods, but that’s how it happened. She wouldn’t be spending much time in a Sept or knelt before any trees, but she wasn’t as certain in her lack of belief as she’d been before. She thought of those Gods now and closed her eyes, remembering the times she’d seen Arya in prayer. “If you’re there, grant me the strength I need to do what’s best for my people.” That was her message for the Gods, what she said next was for Arya alone. “Please forgive me,” she whispered before she hid behind a mask of happiness and took her first step toward becoming someone’s wife, one more time. 

Everyone turned when she approached. For her part Daenerys kept her eyes straight ahead, not on her husband-to-be but on the tree. From the corner of her eye she saw Jon, he stood there in new clothes. His friend and Maester Sam at his side. Unlike most of the men Jon wore grey trousers and the portions of his shirt that were visible around the shining armor matched her dress. Any regrets she had about carrying Arya’s letter with her were erased when she saw Jon wore a medallion around his neck, over top of the steel. Not one handed down from father to son or purchased for the occasion, but one designed by Arya to honor who her brother was. Upon learning he was not Ned Stark’s bastard but actually Daenerys’s nephew, Arya had it made for him. She asked Daenerys to help to ensure she got the dragon portion right. It was the three-headed dragon of her sigil with only two dragons. In the center, in place of the third was a wolf. She’d paid the craftsman at Winterfell a small fortune to have it commissioned. Later she told Daenerys it was to make it clear to him that he could be a Targaryen by blood and by birth but to her he’d always be a Stark and her brother. It is why even when things were at their darkest between the three of them, Arya never hesitated to call Jon brother and not once, not even in anger did Daenerys ever hear her call him a Targaryen or Aegon. 

She already liked Jon and respected him, but even more so when she could see she wasn’t the only one who was missing Arya. She could only hope her tolerance for the man would make it easier to do what was necessary. She reached the end of the line and could no longer look elsewhere, she turned to Jon and took a deep breath. 

“Welcome,” the Septon said in greeting as he began.

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: That’s it. Not much action in this one, but next we’ll find out what Arya’s been up to.


	3. Chapter 3

Upon first leaving Winterfell, Arya didn’t have any particular destination in mind. She rode the horse as fast as she could, in whatever direction seemed shortest. She refused to stop for more than a few minutes at a time, not when her stomach begged for food or her companion whined in complaint. If the stallion died of exhaustion, she’d walk. 

When the sun came up the following day, Arya already had several hours of riding behind her. She’d made camp miles from Winterfell in a small, abandoned house that had only three standing walls. She tried to sleep but it was fruitless. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Daenerys there on the inside of her lids. When she laid on the frozen ground and searched for peace she could almost feel the warmth of her arm snaking around her cold middle. When the wind howled, she could hear the whispered affections Daenerys shared only when she thought the assassin was asleep, and when an animal cried in the distance Arya heard nothing more than Daenerys’s pleasurable moans as they spent hours lost in one another. 

With little more than a few long blinks of rest she gave it up as a lost cause, determined to get back on the road. The horse wasn’t interested, but Arya wasn’t in the mood to take suggestions. She was still too close. 

Things became easier after ‘the day’, if only just barely. She began eating again, allowed both she and her steed to rest and began to think more clearly. She still had to keep busy, to avoid seeing Daenerys’s face on every stranger, or hear her voice around every corner, but it wasn’t all bad. This was the life she’d wanted when she was a girl, wasn’t it? To be free, to go wherever she pleased with only a horse and a sword? To have no one and nothing to answer to? If it was, why did it feel so empty? Shouldn’t at least some part of her, deep down under the hurt, be happy? 

It took less than a month for her to ache for a purpose. She considered returning to Braavos, but it didn’t seem right. How could she run when things were so dangerous for those she cared about? Westeros was a barrel of wildfire and Cersei Lannister held a torch in each hand. Even if Cersei did fear Daenerys’s alliance to the North and remained in line it wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later she’d grow bold again and people would start to die. If her God smiled on her and Cersei died before the next moon they’d still have the Night King and his legion of Undead to contend with. Killing for coin in Braavos didn’t seem important by comparison. 

With this in mind, she guided her horse in the direction of the nearest port. She didn’t have to remain in Winterfell to help those she left behind. Their needs were plentiful and there were some things she could do that all the Queen’s armies couldn’t. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

R-C

It took longer than she would have liked to track and catch the Greyjoy ships. Once she’d decided what she’d do she was eager to get to it. Arya was ready and able to swing her sword and spill some blood, but the hunt forced her to maintain a small measure of restraint. 

She found them outside the town of Lordsport in a small encampment, not far from the mighty seat of House Greyjoy in Pyke. She didn’t know where the ships were hidden but she trusted they were close. No self-respecting son of the Iron Islands would venture too far from their boat. She snuck in one night when the moon was hidden by a sheet of clouds. Making use of the skills she learned chasing stray cats through the sewers of King’s Landing she passed the sentries with ease and stayed in the shadows until she learned Theon’s location. With Needle on her hip and a dagger up her sleeve she slipped into his tent and found him studying the crudely drawn map of a structure she didn’t recognize. He had his back to the tent’s opening and his attention elsewhere, he would have been easy prey. 

It was a tempting option. He’d betrayed Robb, forced Bran and Rickon into exile and failed to protect his sister, Daenerys’s ally, when their uncle attacked, but he also saved Sansa’s life and earned Jon’s forgiveness. He’d come to arrange a rescue with only a few handfuls of men and from what she heard throughout the camp, was determined to save Yara regardless of the cost. It had been too long since she’d killed but she could wait a few more days, if necessary. 

Standing up straight she blocked his path to the exit before clearing her throat loudly. “Theon Greyjoy,” she called. “If you’re going to be a military strategist you need to learn to face the door,” she chastised. “Anyone could come in and cut your throat before you even had time to draw your blade.”

Stunned by the voice from his past he bolted up out of the seat as if it burned. He stumbled pathetically as he tried to turn. She counted no fewer than four opportunities to kill him before he righted himself. “Arya? I thought you were dead.”

“Us Starks are hard to kill,” she reminded him, and he immediately recoiled. From his face she could tell he was reliving his misdeeds, like intending to murder her brothers to appease his father. “You should know that better than anyone.”

He swallowed hard, but to his credit didn’t flinch or call for help. “You… you’ve come to kill me then?”

He sounded so sure of his assessment that she almost felt guilty for letting him believe it. She shook her head slowly. “No Theon, I’m not here to kill you, I’m here to help you save Yara.”

His eyes widened, not in fear but surprise. She could understand, her arrival was unexpected, even to her. “Did Jon send you?”

She closed the space between them, shaking her head again. “No, Jon didn’t send me.” When she was close enough she lashed out, punching him as hard as she could in the right side of his face. He fell back into the chair and they both toppled. “That,” she said as she towered over him, “was for what you did to Robb, Bran and Rickon.” When her arm moved again he cowered a bit, in an attempt to shield his face. She didn’t strike him, she didn’t even touch him, just held out a hand, palm up, waiting for him to take it. He looked unsure, but she nodded to confirm he could trust it. When he did she yanked hard and returned him to his feet. “That,” she said after helping him up, “was for saving Sansa’s life.” 

He rubbed his jaw and she allowed him a few moments to collect himself before things began in earnest. “So, Jon didn’t send you?”

The words she arranged in her mind to fashion the reply reopened her poorly healed wound. “Jon married Daenerys,” she explained, trying her best not to sound bitter. “I’m here on behalf of the Queen to save Yara, if we can.” 

“My uncle has her,” Theon stated, confirming what she already knew. 

She’d heard many versions of the same tale. Yara and Theon presented themselves at Dragonstone before the Queen and asked for her assistance in killing the uncle who murdered their father. Daenerys agreed in return for a promise that the Lady Reaper would support her claim for the Iron Throne. In addition, a further bargain was struck that ensured the Iron Fleet would end the raiding of Westerosi vessels. In exchange Daenerys promised to give Yara the freedom to rule her kingdom as she saw fit, separate from the Realm, although still loyal to Daenerys. Arya had no reason to question the details she heard from so many different voices, but she verified anyway. “Is it true you and your sister are sworn to support Daenerys?”

“Yara is to be our Queen,” Theon confirmed. “She’s the ruler, not me.” Arya could tell there was a story there, but she wasn’t interested, at least not presently. She urged him to continue with a look. “She promised our fleets to battle Cersei and the Targaryen agreed to let us be free.”

“As long as you end the raiding, the raping, and the pillaging of ships coming from or going to Westeros?”

He didn’t seem surprised by her knowledge. “That’s right. It was a fair deal and Yara would have honored it, I swear she would have. She’s good and she’s decent, far better than me.”

“Jon and Daenerys know, that’s why I’m here. If you’re sister’s alive, we’re going to save her,” she vowed. 

“It’s no use,” Theon said, reaching for and picking up the document he’d been reviewing. “We found her, but we’re nearly out of coin, our supplies are all but gone and we have barely enough men to sail the ships. We can’t mount an attack.”

His opinion of their chances was not important to her. This small thing, this one thing, was all she could do to support Daenerys and her family, so she would. As for Theon, he would help, regardless of his feelings on the matter. “Where is she?” she asked, snatching the map from him and giving it a quick study. 

“On Pyke, in a special dungeon my father had built to torture and house prisoners during the rebellion.” 

Suddenly, she was taken back to a time when she was a girl, sitting on her father’s knee, listening to the story of the Greyjoy revolt. It was why Theon was sent to Winterfell to live under her father’s care, and why Balon carried a grudge against her family to his dying day. “Do you know where it is?” Arya asked, moving to the table so she could view the map under better light. 

“Yes, one of the men saw her there, but he was killed just after he sent word. Ever since she’s had twice as many guards with her at all times.”

“How many?”

“At least four, more when they are moving her to a different cell or feeding her. Two watch the door, and two are inside with her.” 

As he finished answering he took the map back and pointed to the spot where Yara was last known to be. It was a separate building, several miles from the castle. “Four men,” Arya stated confidently. “We can handle that.”

“No, we can’t,” he disagreed. “It’s not just four men Arya, it’s four men with her, another ten in the other parts of the building and at least six more patrolling the outside at all times. If Jon and his new Queen want to help, they need to send troops, maybe those savages from Essos. We’d only need ten or so, combined with the men I have with me.” 

She was momentarily offended by his lack of faith in her, until she remembered that he didn’t know where she’d been or what she’d learned while she was away. To Theon she was still the skinny little girl who chased after her brothers, desperate to be like them. He had no idea how good she’d gotten at that particular pastime. 

“We don’t need the Dothraki and we don’t need your men. In fact, what we need is for them to go in the opposite direction. If we’re going to rescue Yara, it’s just going to be you and me.” 

He looked at her as if she’d been struck on the head one too many times. “What!? That’s suicide. We’d be killed. The guards know what I look like, my uncle placed a bounty on my head. He’s offering a year of wages to anyone who brings me to him, twice that if I’m still alive.” 

Arya smiled. “Exactly. Now take a seat and listen to what we’re going to do.” 

R-C

It hadn’t taken long to sway Theon to her side. He had no other options and as he said, he was running low on supplies. The Ironborn who remained loyal to him were on the edge of mutiny already and he knew it. It made him willing to try things her way. 

What was harder was convincing the men he led to accept her plot as Theon had. She expected a fight or two to be necessary to prove her worth, but Theon spoke up and demanded their allegiance for Yara and for the Salt Throne. While she didn’t know how he’d done it, Theon had somehow managed to earn the trust of the war-hardened sailors. When he said he was going along, with or without them, they agreed. 

It took less than a week for Arya to put things in motion. She instructed the Iron Islanders to go to their ships and to be seen doing it. She wanted word to spread and she wanted all eyes away from Yara and on Theon’s men. She instructed them to sail several miles off the coast of Pyke and wait. Once they had, she directed them to sneak back to the camp, effectively abandoning their ships. They were reluctant, unwilling to surrender their prized assets and also afraid of ending up like Yara or worse, but at Theon’s insistence they relented. While the Queen’s remained secreted away, she got to work. 

The tavern was exactly what she expected from such a place. It reminded her of Braavos, the smell of salt in the air, the hard dock workers cursing loudly as they gambled, drank and whored away the day’s profits. As she stripped down and put on a dress she felt constrained and awkward, but she’d worn far worse things to get close to a target, so she suffered through it. 

She didn’t have to wait long before a group of soldiers came in, eager to drink away their troubles. She watched them closely and stayed in the background until they were more than a little drunk. With her face covered in a thick coat of makeup to hide her scars she looked like just another whore. 

Her eagerness to get this done almost caused her to rush, but she remained relatively patient. When the first fight broke out, she did nothing. When the soldiers began arguing with a group of sailors over a debt, she stayed out of it. She heard Jaqen’s voice in her head. “There will be a moment, you’ll feel in your bones that it’s right. That’s when you act, not before.”

The fact that he’d once tried to kill her aside Jaqen’s advice had saved her life plenty, so she listened. When the youngest of the soldiers lost yet another collection of coins to his opponent, she knew the time had come. She approached slowly, weaving through the crowd and expertly ignoring groping hands and calls for her company. She stopped next to the young man and gently caressed his shoulder, working her way up his neck. He brushed her off, too upset to take pleasure in her advances. He spared her only the slightest glance. “Be gone, can’t you see I’m losing. I can’t afford you.”

Across the table the other man, an older, fatter man with a thick beard grinned, showing off a wide space between his teeth. “I can honey, why don’t you come sit with me?”

She ignored the offer and pressed her lips to the young soldier’s ear. “It’s on the house,” she promised in her most sultry voice. “You look like you could use a break and who knows I might bring you good luck.”

Just like that, the man who had barely considered her was now an eager and willing participant. “I’ll be back later,” he told the group as he stood. Arya attached herself to his arm in an attempt to play her part. 

The men cheered and whistled for this Johan as they went. “Don’t go easy on her,” one of the other troops said before they slipped out of hearing range. Under her makeup Arya almost gagged. 

When her partner was about to turn for the staircase she pivoted him in the opposite direction. “If we go upstairs, you’ll have to pay,” she said to justify her choice, “but if we go outside…”

He’d heard enough and was all too happy to drag her out the rear door and into a narrow alley behind a line of buildings. Before the door had swung closed, he was on her. He slobbered on her neck and roughly groped her breasts. She let him for a moment, giving him one final thrill to take with him into the next life. Giggling idiotically as she’d often heard women do, she reached for the front of his pants and massaged him. “Such a big man. Show it to me.”

He stepped back and leaned against the wall, needing the support in his drunken state. That was all she needed. Her dagger was strapped to her thigh, hidden by the dark blue dress she wore. About the time his pants, and the sword attached to his belt reached the dirt, she was ready. It only took a second, one fluid stroke of steel across the center of his throat. It was quick, just as she’d been taught. Startled he staggered, clutching his wound with both hands before he slid down the wall and into the dirt where the blood was already beginning to pool. 

Prayers came next, to the Many Faced God and the Old Gods of her father. “Forgive me,” she said out loud. She apologized for the life she’d taken but claimed it necessary to save many more. She hadn’t tried to take a face since she left the order and wasn’t completely confident it would work. It did. She stripped him of his clothes, robbed him of his valuables and dragged his corpse into a nearby trash heap. He’d be discovered soon, but Arya would already be gone. 

When she got back to Theon’s camp, the majority of the men were already there. After a quick count she realized they were several short. “What happened to the others?” she asked no one in particular. 

“Fenn and Riley wouldn’t come. Said they were better off alone,” one told her. 

“And Andres won’t leave the boat. Says he’d rather die than let her go.”

“So be it,” she said finding Theon and gripping his arm. “Let’s go.” She threw him a length of rope. “Tie that around your wrists.”

He was immediately uncomfortable with the idea of being bound. “W…what? Why?”

Rather than answer she got changed. Without concern for manners she stripped out of the whore’s dress she’d stolen and swapped it for the soldier’s armor. Happily cleaning the paint from her face. She wasn’t the least bit bothered by the men watching her change. She didn’t care if they looked, but if they tried to touch her, she’d take their hands. 

It took longer than it should have for her to understand the gasps and whispers that came when she abandoned the dress. With her back to the group she put a large number of her scars on display. “Gods Arya, what happened to you?” Theon wondered. 

“It doesn’t matter. If you want to save Yara, put those bindings on and come with me.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“Stay here, if we’re not back by morning, you’re free to take what you can carry and go.” The protests that followed her departure were ignored. She took off running, trusting Theon to keep up and he didn’t disappoint. 

R-C

“Have you ever heard of the Faceless Men? The assassins from Braavos?” 

“They’re real?!” he called, forgetting their need for stealth. 

“Shut up!” she hissed in a low but forceful voice. “And yes, the Faceless Men are very real. That’s where I was when I was away. It’s where I got the scars and where I learned the things I can do.” She slowed slightly to look at him and saw he’d stopped completely, staring at her in a mix of wonder and fear. They didn’t have time for this. She went back, took hold of his arm pulling him with her. “The Faceless Men can take the faces of those they’ve killed.”

“Horseshit,” he countered, keeping his volume down this time, but still making it clear he didn’t trust her words. 

Rather than argue with him, she reached up and pulled the new face down, feeling the familiar burn as it rippled under her skin. As always it started at the top right corner of her scar and radiated out, slowly spreading until it covered the whole of her face. When she was wearing Johan’s image she looked to Theon. “Believe me now?”

He couldn’t answer because he was too busy vomiting, into a bunch of weeds on the side of the road. “My name is Johan and I’ve captured you. On your uncle’s orders I’m to take you to join your sister.”

It was well over a minute before he managed to speak. “I can see it, but I still can’t believe…”

“You don’t need to believe, just do your part. You’re my prisoner. I’ll do the talking, stay quiet and pretend to struggle.”

“What of the guards?” he questioned. “Even a Faceless Man can’t kill them all.”

That sounded like a challenge, but one Arya didn’t have time to test. “I won’t need to.”

R-C

“Identify yourself!” the first guard yelled as they approached. Bowmen took aim at her from both inside and outside the building, but she remained calm. Theon’s panic and fear only helped sell the game as genuine. 

“My name’s Johan, I’ve got Theon Greyjoy here. His uncle wants him to rot with his sister before he executes them.” To emphasize her point she kicked her captive in the back of his legs and forced him to his knees. 

The archers didn’t lower their weapons, but a single guard stepped forward, sword in one hand, torch in the other. He angled the flame toward Theon’s face and he instinctively shied away. “By the Gods, it’s really him.” He smacked Theon in the cheek. “Open up boys, they’ve finally caught him.”

She lifted him back up and they took their first step toward the prison. “Are you in charge here?” she asked the man with the torch. 

“Aye. Name’s Mason.”

“Yep,” she muttered, “Mason that’s the name I heard. The King wants to kill these fuckers himself,” Arya said, earning a dark laugh from the Ironborn. “Said to tell you when I arrived and that you’d go and get him.”

The laughter ended abruptly. “The… the King asked for me, by name?”

“You’se Mason right?” She waited for him to nod and then she did the same. “Then he asked for you, said you were in charge of things here and he wanted you to come and get him when Theon and his sister were ready for what they’s got coming.”

She could practically smell the fear coming off him, but Mason was a commander and he refused to look weak in front of his men. “I’ll go and get’em then.” 

“The rest of you’se,” Arya yelled, wanting as many of them to hear her as possible. “This bastard’s friends are running. They’re in ships a few miles that way,” she said holding out her arm to her left. “The King says a pouch of gold for every fuckin’ head you brings him.”

The promise of coin and the chance to kill brought cheers from her audience. Just as Arya’s hoped, even the laziest guard was motivated to go searching. By the time she reached the doors, they were already open, with a flow of men flooding out. There were even more of them than Theon guessed. It would have been a long bloody fight. As it were, they’d be gone before the idiots realized they’d been had. 

“What ‘bout you?” Mason asked. 

She knocked Theon to the dirt again. “I’m going to soften this one up for the King and take some time to enjoy his pretty sister before you get back. Be quick though, the King said he was in a rush.”

While she’d never met Euron Greyjoy she had no problem believing he was a vile and evil man. The way his men all but shriveled at the mention of him spoke volumes. Mason handed over a set of keys. “Downstairs. The guards’ll get you what’ya need.”

“Thank you,” she said as she raised Theon a final time. “I’ve got a reward coming. First drinks is on me!” The offer of free drink was almost as appealing to these thugs as the one of coin and blood. They cheered for Johan again. 

 

“Gods, Arya,” Theon complained as she led him down the staircase into the bowels of the dungeon. “For a second there I thought you might really mean to kill me.”

“Shut up,” she whispered harshly, “or I just might.” 

At the bottom of the stairs she learned Theon’s word was true. Just as he said, his sister hung by her wrists in a cage midday down the line, two guards sat at a table in the outer room and another pair were inside, working Yara over with body punches and verbal taunts. 

“We have to help her,” Theon said when he saw Yara’s state. 

“What did he say?” one of the outer guards asked as they both approached. 

With limited options she kicked Theon roughly and sent him falling against the stone floor on his face. With his hands tied he couldn’t protect himself and the force broke the skin. “Little prick’s been begging me to let him go,” she said as she made a show of kicking him. “He’s going to die but first his uncle wants to pay him back for all the trouble he’s caused.”

One of the men grabbed Theon by the hair and pulled hard, forcing his head up. Arya got a view of the bloody nose she caused and felt regret. It was necessary, but still unpleasant. “She’s a tough bitch,” the man exclaimed as he let Theon go. “I wager he screams long ‘fore she does.”

“I’ll take that action,” his partner said. “She’s been there for ages. She’s bound to break soon. Remy and Pattson ‘re really givin’ it to’r tonight.”

When Theon looked as though he might ruin everything Arya improvised. “I want a turn,” she said, placing her boot on Theon’s back to keep him down. When they laughed Arya joined in. 

“Sure,” the older of the two agreed, “let the hero have a chance. He caught the little fucker. He might get her crying too.”

Arya smirked. There would be crying surely but not from Yara. Just as with Johan she waited for the right moment and then pounced. While one guard was unlocking the door, the other was taking a turn on Theon. She had a choice to make and decided he could handle a few extra kicks. Before the key turned, Arya popped up behind him, wrapped an arm around the top half of his body and held him tight against her chest. His protests were nothing more than wet gurgling as he choked on his own blood. She let his body fall and turned to the second man. Theon was taking a beating, squirming and wriggling, unintentionally keeping him distracted and oblivious to Arya’s actions. That made it easy to creep up behind him and run Johan’s sword through his chest. The thick walls and loud voices from inside Yara’s cage kept their betrayal private. Arya helped Theon up and cut his hands loose. Together they moved the bodies out of view and then hurried down the hall. When he was about to burst in thoughtlessly she grabbed him by the back of his shirt. “You’re my prisoner, remember.” Before they entered she passed him her favorite dagger. He was still looking at the offered weapon when she guided his arms behind his back, mimicking as though he were again bound. He nodded in understanding, panting heavily and clearing the blood away from his top lip with a lick. “I’m sorry I had to do that.”

“I’ve had worse,” he assured her. 

“Let’s finish this. Mason will be back with your uncle soon.”

She gave Theon a moment to ready himself and then she finished the jailors job and opened the door. Pushing him inside roughly, he did a good job of keeping the weapon hidden and his hands behind him, even without the rope. 

“Who’s this’un?” a beast of a man wondered at his new toy. 

“This is Theon Greyjoy,” she told them. “The King’s on his way to talk to them hisself.”

In all the time they’d been close enough to hear the goings on inside her cell, Yara hadn’t uttered a word. She didn’t cry out in pain when they hit her, she didn’t object to the groping or curse back when they called her names, but at the sight of her brother she yelled, her voice raw. “Theon no!”

The first of the guards hit her and the second laughed, going to where Theon lay. “Now we’re talking,” he said, looking at the dangling woman. “I was startin’ to think she couldn’t scream no more.”

“Fuck you, you prick,” Yara spat. 

In reply he pulled back his hand to hit her and Arya knew Theon saw what she did. He could barely contain himself before, he wouldn’t be able to delay now. With that in mind she threw herself into the largest man, knocking him against the wall with the surprise of her attack. He hit her with the weight of a hammer, but it was nothing more than his wide fist. Arya saw spots when he connected. She did her best to avoid the next punch, but his meaty arm was too long for her to truly escape, the enclosed space too small to allow her to dodge. Beside her Theon used her dagger to oppose the second guard and Yara hung from the ceiling with wide eyes watching it happen. 

As she ducked under another swing Arya went for her sword. Before it was out, a hand gripped her wrist and pulled. She resisted, but failed, losing her hold on the blade, she heard it clatter against the floor, useless. 

While she waited for an opportunity Yara seized the moment. With great effort she swung by her bloody arms, as far right as she could and then using her momentum, came back the other way. When Arya saw what she intended she lowered her head and rushed straight at her opponent, forcing him back into Yara’s reach. Weak as she was, she still kicked him with what little might she had left. He wasn’t expecting it and that’s what made it work. He took his eyes of Arya just long enough for her to reclaim her dropped sword. When he turned back, it was already over. She impaled him on the steel and then went to help Theon. 

When the men were dead, and their bodies locked away in an unused cell, Theon raced to Yara’s side. “Are you alright?” he asked her. “Arya help me get her down.”

Looking at the battered woman she knew this was going to be harder than she thought. “We can’t,” she said. 

Holding the bloody dagger, Theon rounded on her. “What? Of course, we can. Hurry before they come back.”

She sheathed her sword in an attempt to show her allegiance. “Daenerys needs the Iron Fleet. The war with King’s Landing will happen eventually and the Night King is nearing the Wall.”

“What are you talking about?”

Arya looked up at the woman who would rule these lands. “You were loyal to Daenerys Targaryen once. She sent me to save you. Are you loyal still?”

Yara’s brother wasn’t interested in her questions. “Arya what are you doing? Give me the keys and help me get her down.”

A slight whimper slipped out when she parted her tightly closed lips, words coming after. “Y…yes. I’ll honor my oath.” 

“Good, then I need to leave you up there for a few more minutes, then we’ll get you out of here.”

“What are you saying?”

She looked away from Yara to Theon. “Mason and your uncle will be back soon, along with who knows how many guards. If we’re going to have any chance of beating them, he needs to think he’s already won.”

Although he looked like he wanted to refuse he didn’t. “What would you have me do?”

She smiled at his concession. “Same as before, pretend you’re my prisoner, pretend you’re beaten and bound. When they come in, wait for me to attack and then grab the sword,” she said nodding to one of the guard’s weapons. “Kill Mason, I’ll handle Euron and the others.”

Confident he was about to agree, Yara shocked them both. “No,” she objected in a raspy whisper. “Euron’s mine.”

All too well could understand the thirst for vengeance. She nodded. “If I can keep him alive for you, I will but if it’s him or us, he dies.”

“Fine.”

R-C

They didn’t have to wait long for Mason to arrive. He came in with Euron Greyjoy and a pair of personal guards. From a single look at the man Arya could tell he was a fighter. His walk, his posture, everything about him foretold of danger.

Damn joyful at his circumstance neither he, nor any of his men noticed the lack of the others. “You got him!” he said to Johan when he approached the cage. 

For show she delivered a kick to Theon’s ribs before she pretended to notice Euron and took a knee. “My King I found the traitor! The others are killing his men.”

“Good man,” he said, patting Arya on the shoulder. “You’ll never want for anything again, I promise.”

“Very kind, Sire.”

“String him up here,” Euron said pointing. “Put him right next to his sweet sister so they can watch each other die.” He looked at Yara with longing. “You and your cockless brother are going to be worth your weights in gold. When the fleet gets back from Essos with the sell-swords I’ll return to King’s Landing a hero.”

Mason went to do Euron’s bidding and like a perfect actor Theon resisted. He kicked Mason in the groin and caused the captain to curse and back away as he covered his prick. “Son of a whore!” he screamed. 

Euron wanted to get to the good part. With a roll of his eyes he directed one of his guards. “Help’em for fuck’s sake.” 

While their attention was on Theon, Euron went to Yara. He reached up and stroked her cheek as a lover might. “You’ve been so strong,” he said almost kindly, but it was false and they all knew it. “You’ve been brave but now we’ll see what you’re really made of. Now that I’ve got your precious little Theon.”

Arya wasn’t going to get a better chance. She positioned herself next to the second of Euron’s men and shifted her hand toward the handle of her sword. “Now!” she shouted, alerting Theon and causing all eyes in the room to turn to her. The guard closest to her died first, skewered by the length of her sword before he even managed to reach for his. Arya took an immediate liking to Yara. Despite the pain, her injuries and her exhaustion she found a reserve of willpower and swung her body from the chains again. Euron dodged her entire left leg and all but a fraction of her right foot, but the limited contact unsteadied him slightly. 

The King drew his sword and immediately went for the most vulnerable victim. The razor-sharp edge was just inches away from coming down on Yara’s neck when Arya got hers between them. “Who are you?” he demanded to know. 

As she predicted Euron was a warrior. He was talented with a sword and had no problem fighting dirty. Arya had to spend half her time protecting Yara instead of fighting him. “Arya Stark of Winterfell,” she told him as she swiped at his middle. 

“Stark? Aww little Theon made a friend, did he?” he taunted. When she heard his jab she worried Theon would take his eyes off the battle and leave his opponents an opening. Her fear was misplaced. He dueled the two men as if his uncle wasn’t in the room. 

A pained cry told her when Mason lost his war. That left only one of Euron’s guard and the man himself. “Get over here damn it!” he commanded. The guard, more afraid of his liege than Theon did as he was ordered and foolishly gave his back to the younger Greyjoy. Theon capitalized just as her father had once taught him to. 

Two against one now. She did her best to back Euron away from Yara. Once she had, she used her free hand to throw Theon the keys. “Get her down, find her some fucking clothes and a weapon.”

“Touch her and I’ll sink you to the bottom of the sea,” their uncle threatened. 

She smirked. “I don’t think you’re going to get that chance.”

Furious he took a wild swing and she blocked it. The steel clashed, and she felt more at peace than she had at any other moment since she left Daenerys in Winterfell. With a rapid spin, she twirled around her enemy and arrived behind him. Remembering her promise to Yara she lowered her eyes off his neck and took aim lower. A quick cut was all she had time for before he responded, and only if she was fast enough. She was. A short slice across the back of his right knee and the battle was effectively over. He collapsed when he tried to finish turning. She knocked the sword from his hand and then held her tip to his throat. “Go on then,” he urged. “Do it. Kill me!”

She didn’t like this man, but she had to give credit where it was due. He was fearless. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned with the prospect of his impending death. Unworried about spending his final moments in such a dank, horrible place. “I’d love to, but I’m a woman of my word.”

The beaten King scoffed at her. “Woman? You’re the ugliest fuckin’ woman I’ve ever seen.”

Aware of Theon and Yara behind her Arya reached up and returned her face to its natural state. This time Theon managed not to puke, and his uncle looked as if he didn’t believe his eyes. “Make it quick,” she said to Yara, “the others will be back soon.”

“Goodbye Uncle Euron,” she said, working to speak clearly. “I wish I could spend as much time with you, as you did with me, but this will have to be enough. I promise no one will remember you.” 

“You could never…” 

He didn’t get to finish as Yara used the last of her energy to silence him forever. When he was dead, the sword fell from her grip and she staggered, the events of the day catching up with her. Theon kept her from falling. “You came for me,” she said in awe. 

“I’m sorry it took so long. I’d still be trying to find a way to save you if not for Arya here. She deserves the credit.”

Yara blinked several deliberate times, clearly trying to reconcile the two faces she saw mounted on the same body. “How…”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re safe. Now let’s go. We don’t have long.”

On the way up the stairs, Yara spoke again. “Why did… did you come for me?” she asked, her voice breaking. 

“I meant what I said, Daenerys sent me. She needs your armies and your fleet. Keep your word, you’d be dead without her.” 

“I…I’ll…. “ She shivered in her brother’s arm, wearing the oversized clothes and armor of one of the dead. “Right away,” she mumbled. “I’ll send them right away.” It sounded to Arya like she was on the brink of sleep. 

“Can you carry her?” she asked Theon as she took the lead to guide them out. 

“Come on,” he said as he cradled her in his arms. “You’re going to be alright. You need to get better, you’ve got a kingdom to rule.”

R-C

She’d been married for more than three months when the raven came. In that time, both Daenerys and Jon had returned South. Her new husband left Sansa to rule the North in his absence and in the weeks since learned Bran had insisted to return to the Wall, claiming he was needed there to help prepare for the Night King’s arrival. Using their marriage as a flag to rally all those who would defy Cersei, they did what they could to arrange support. They’d had little success, but Varys, Tyrion, Jon and many others insisted progress was happening. To her disgust the one sign of success that couldn’t be doubted came from the Vale. With Arya gone from Winterfell under a fog of mystery, those who were angered by her killing of Littlefinger returned to the fold. Sansa proved to be a calculating and intelligent woman, reminding those who questioned her of the role her mother’s favored family played in their past successes. She invoked Catelyn Stark’s memory to control them. Daenerys wanted to object to the way they branded Arya as the lawless animal who killed without cause, knowing that wasn’t the case, but all those around her spoke of the need for caution. She listened, though it did leave a bad taste in her mouth. 

There had been no response from King’s Landing at the news of her wedding. No emissaries sent, no ravens, no threats or congratulations. Frustrated with the speed of things, she considered attempting to provoke the Lannister Queen. Tyrion advised that that course of action was not wise. 

Sitting behind a desk she was trying to review the inventory of goods that arrived in the latest shipment from Meereen but her heart wasn’t in it. Tyrion was spending the day amongst the influential people she ruled, ensuring they remained committed to her succession. That is why she was surprised to hear him clear his throat and knock lightly on the frame of the already open door. Unexpected as he was, she was pleased to have an excuse to put down the pages. “Tyrion, come in. I thought you were still gone.”

He smiled and moved closer. She invited him to sit and he did, separated from her by the large, dark desk. “Just returned,” he replied. 

“And?” She was immediately on edge. Typically, she didn’t have to prompt him more than once to learn the reasons for his visits. 

“Ravens awaited me, your Grace.”

“Good news or bad?”

Expecting the worse, she wasn’t prepared for the smile that appeared as he passed over the scroll. As with all the correspondence they received he’d broken the seal and reviewed the message before presenting it to her. “The best, your Grace. The Iron Fleet is sailing now, approaching to deliver support, men and aid.”

Raising an eyebrow, she wondered if she’d misheard him. Varys birds whispered that Euron Greyjoy was promised Cersei Lannister in exchange for support. Desperate to be King, she thought him hopelessly decided. “The Greyjoy switched sides?”

“The Greyjoy is dead,” Tyrion corrected. “Yara now sits on her father’s throne, battered but alive. 

This was the best news Daenerys had heard in weeks. “She escaped?” Daenerys pictured the brave, strong-willed captain and was pleased to hear she lived. 

“Seems Theon mounted a successful rescue,” he explained. “Surprising. I didn’t think he had it in him, although I’m certain Arya Stark’s particular skills provided plenty of assistance.”

All the sudden, it was as if the wind was knocked from her chest. She hunched over slightly working to refilling her lungs. “Arya?” she asked, trying to make her strained voice sound casual. 

Since settling into life at Dragonstone, Arya was a rarely discussed topic. Few knew of Daenerys’s connection to her and as such it was easy for most people to overlook her completely. After several fights on the topic, Jon knew better than to mention his sister in Daenerys’s presence. It was only Missandei who was free to bring up the woman who still held Daenerys’s heart. It wasn’t uncommon for the two friends to stay up late into the night, drinking wine in one of her castle’s empty rooms, whispering about the lost Wolf. 

Trapped in her mind she hadn’t noticed Tyrion was talking. She picked up his words in the middle of a comment. “…to say the least. Sansa was heartbroken when she disappeared. I suspected she’d gone back to Braavos but for once I am happy to report I’m wrong.” 

“Is Arya well?” Daenerys questioned, fearing the answer. 

“She is. A gifted killer, that one. Yara claims she slaughtered those holding her with only Theon for help and then wounded her uncle so Yara could kill him herself.” 

Daenerys smiled. That sounded exactly like Arya. “Where is she now?” 

“Yara may sit on the Salt Throne, but there isn’t peace. According to the raven, Arya intends to stay to help Yara quell any rebellions that might take root.”

This was significant. Not just because Arya chose to save and help Yara, but because for the first time since they separated Daenerys knew with certainty where she was. “Thank you, Tyrion. Have Grey Worm send a hundred of his best men to help Yara hold her new position.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked critically. “She is sending half her army in our direction. Why send troops the other way when we can use them here?”

It was a fair question, but Daenerys was certain her instincts were valid. “It would benefit each of us for the people of Westeros to know Yara supports me, and I her. She can’t provide much aid to us if she’s busy fighting to keep her throne. Hopefully the presence of the Unsullied will give people pause.” 

By the time she’d finished, Tyrion had visibly come around to her way of thinking. “Devious, I like it. I’ll dispatch the Unsullied right away.”

Daenerys rewarded him with a sincere smile. “Invite Yara to visit as soon as she’s able and make sure she knows how happy we are to have her back with us.”

For the first time since he sat down, her Hand looked uneasy. “I will,” he promised. 

“Is there something else?”

He held out the letter to her and she took it, without unwinding it. “Her message, it claims you sent the Stark to rescue her. Did you?” he asked bluntly. “I wasn’t aware you had.” 

Daenerys had to think fast to cover her inadequacy. She hadn’t asked Arya to do anything other than to stay with her. She hadn’t known she was going to Pyke and she definitely hadn’t asked her to risk her life. She hid the delay behind the false pretense of reading the scroll. “I may have mentioned to Arya in conversation that I wished Yara free, but I didn’t explicitly send her there,” the Queen admitted. 

Tyrion’s expression made it clear he suspected as much. “The Ironborn loyal to Yara are pledged to you for as long as you need them. The Salt Queen herself appears rather moved by the effort and is even more committed to supporting your claim for the Iron Throne.” She wanted to speak but didn’t because she knew Tyrion well enough to know he wasn’t through. “Speaking plainly, perhaps it would be best not to share the truth with Yara. Her renewed commitment is a major victory for us.”

“The truth will remain here,” she assured him. He nodded in approval and then stood. “Thank you, Tyrion. Please spread the word of Yara’s new title to both our allies and enemies.”

“What about you?”

Looking down at the desktop she found the page she’d been reading when he entered. “I will continue reviewing the reports from Essos and see you at dinner,” she lied. She had no intention of finishing her reading. The only thing Daenerys wanted to do was write a letter to Arya. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: There it is. Thank you to all the people who are reading and commenting. Since deciding to try this storyline fully, I realized it’ll likely be the biggest story I’ve ever posted (or close to it). I appreciate anyone who is willing to come along for the ride. 
> 
> Next, we’ve got a flashback, a little from Daenerys, a little from Arya and a bit from Winterfell. I hope you’ll keep reading.


	4. Chapter 4

Outwardly she and Jon appeared to be a traditional married couple. They spent time together, held hands, and kissed when appropriate. In private though the ghost of Arya hung over them both. 

Melisandre had promised them that the Lord of Light would reward them with a child and so she’d taken Jon into her bed four times since they were bonded, including the first night. After each encounter she waited for news from the Maester that she was pregnant, but it never came. In between there were no additional trysts. Where once she’d welcomed his affections, now his presence was a reminder of the burdens she carried. She wanted an heir, knowing it would be invaluable for future generations but she rarely sought him out to try in earnest. Not even the promise of a baby, a thing she had long since thought impossible for her could be adequate motivation. 

Few seemed aware of the fact that her King kept separate chambers next to hers. No one questioned the reason for their frequent nights apart. At first Daenerys thought it strange, although not unpleasant, until she remembered she was their Queen and Jon their King. Few who served her were in the position to inquire about a matter so personal. She was a foreigner in their eyes, with her ‘savage screamers’ and eunuchs. The Westerosi likely blamed her Targaryen blood for any breaks from customs that she carried out. 

The longer they went without Daenerys becoming pregnant the more reluctant Jon was to approach her for sex. When they were married, he erroneously believed they’d be sharing a bed nightly. Given that she’d been willing that first night, she could understand the confusion. When they were alone she encouraged him to seek comfort from others, but the manners instilled in him by Lord Eddard Stark prevented him from following through. 

Since learning of Arya’s actions Daenerys had been able to think of little else. She’d begun praying regularly, not at the Sept, but in the privacy of her chambers, using it as an excuse to talk to Arya, hoping she’d hear. This night, she’d pray for the speed of the raven she sent to Pyke. The letter needed to reach her before she moved on. It was the only chance Daenerys had. 

It was late when the knock came, and she instantly feared it was Jon. Tonight, was not the night for him to proposition her for sex. “Come,” she answered, sounding bitter even to her own ears. 

The door opened slowly to reveal Missandei and not her husband on the other side. Her attitude drastically improved. “Apologies, your Grace.”

She waved it away with her small hand. “Come in Missandei. I’m sorry for my mood, I thought you were someone else.”

The advisor closed the door behind her and locked it. She said nothing until she was standing beside Daenerys, wearing a black dress that was even darker than her skin and an accompanying sad smile. “I may have mentioned to the King that you and I had plans this evening,” she explained. 

One more time she was reminded of just how lucky she was to have Missandei with her. “Thank you, my friend.”

They sat at a small circular table and Missandei poured the drinks, not wine as they usual drank but expensive rum from Essos, the kind favored by Daario’s sell-swords and war-hardened mercenaries the world over. “I heard of Arya’s deeds.”

Of course, she had. The whole castle was humming with the news that Arya Stark, the murderous daughter of the honorable former Hand to Robert Baratheon had killed Euron Greyjoy and installed Yara on his throne. “I didn’t send her, and I’m furious that she put herself in danger but…”

Daenerys wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. She was thrilled to know where Arya was, to be able to confirm she was alive but she hated knowing she’d endangered her life, no matter how noble the cause. Daenerys understood better than most that even the most capable warriors sometimes fell. Drogo was a vivid reminder of that lesson. She didn’t wish the same fate for Arya. In fact, she’d give all she owned to keep it from happening. That said, it warmed her to the core to know that Arya still served her, still honored her and protected them all, in spite of what had happened. Hope was a dangerous thing, but she couldn’t deny it tonight. 

“But you’re pleased she still cares,” Missandei completed for her, cutting right to the heart of it. 

She took a drink of the rum, letting it burn its way down her throat. “Exactly.”

Missandei smiled as she too took a sip. “Tell me, when did you know you cared for her.” 

“From the moment we met I was struck,” she confessed. “I had so many questions. They kept me up nights, and filled my mind during the day, when I should have been listening to others. I would catch myself wondering where she was or what she was doing. I never invited Jon…” she couldn’t finish the thought but didn’t need to. Missandei put a soft hand on hers. She swallowed down her pain with a mouthful of rum and continued on. “I knew I was interested less than a week after that first night.”

R-C

More Than Six Months Before the Wedding

Being new to Winterfell, Daenerys took time looking around without purpose, getting a feel for the area. She stumbled upon a young woman berating a man more than twice her size. He shied away from her fury while his cohorts in the Winterfell garrison stood by in silence. While the troops wore castle-forged steel covered by fur to protect from the elements the woman looked woefully underdressed in her thin looking shirt and light furs. The shiny sword on her hip that didn’t look capable of hurting anyone. A blade that thin would surely break on contact. From the back, Daenerys didn’t recognize it as Arya at first. 

While the scene unfolded Daenerys worked her way closer, more than a little curious. It was the red hair that provided the first hint, Sansa’s famous fire-colored locks. She assumed correctly that the guards were her personal protectors. 

In the cold Daenerys could see puffs of air leave the woman’s mouth with every furious word. “You can’t protect anyone from over here!” she yelled. “You might as well stay home. You’re fucking useless.”

Aware of what the woman apparently wasn’t, Sansa tried to reign in her defender. “This can wait until later Arya,” she suggested, sparing the Queen a smile.

Arya? Despite many attempts she hadn’t managed to speak to Arya since their meeting in the forest. She saw her occasionally, at meals or conversing with her siblings, but whenever Daenerys approached, the youngest she-wolf would make an excuse to leave. It was becoming hard not to take her response personally. 

“It can’t wait,” she disagreed fiercely. Gripping the man by his shoulder she pushed him to a position she thought more suitable. “Do it right or I’ll find someone who can.”

Embarrassed, the guard looked like he wanted to justify his actions but wisely held his tongue. He changed his mind after looking around and seeing the size of the audience, many of whom were laughing at his expense. “I was close enough,” he protested weakly. 

She glanced sideways and saw Tyrion was as captivated as she was. They both held their breath while they waited to see what Arya would do next. 

With a humorless chuckle she walked away from the noble and her men. When there was about fifteen feet between them she glanced over her shoulder. “Protect her then.” To prove her point Arya twisted gracefully, retrieving a dagger from up her sleeve at the same time. She flipped it over in her hand and threw it toward her sister. All four of Sansa’s guards tried to intervene, including the one who started the argument, but none were quick enough. The dagger hit its mark, striking above her right shoulder, sparing the flesh but binding the white shawl she wore to the wall of the stable. 

Beside her Tyrion looked as if he was struggling not to laugh. “Effective presentation.”

Daenerys couldn’t argue. Arya marched straight to Sansa and tore the dagger from the wood. “Was that really necessary?” she asked in complaint. 

She turned to the men as if Sansa hadn’t spoken. “Protect her with your lives or you’ll be answering to me.” 

Another opportunity to talk to Arya came when she headed Daenerys’s way. She opened her mouth, but a pair of stormy grey eyes silenced her. It was probably for the best, she had no idea what she intended to say. Those thoughts were pushed aside by Sansa’s appearance. “Your Grace, Lord Tyrion, I’m sorry you had to see that. Arya takes my security very seriously, she’s…” she paused and took time to search for the appropriate word, “passionate.”

Her eyes darted to the Stark in question. She had no trouble believing that. Since causing the spectacle with the guard she’d hopped a fence and was already sparring with a pair of soldiers. Daenerys pulled her eyes away. “No apologies needed. Proper training and passionate armies are going to be essential if we’re going to win these wars.” 

She ended the memory by emptying her glass of its rum. “That’s when I knew,” Daenerys whispered, “I simply had to speak to her again.” 

R-C

The long table was meant to be lined with Starks. The current state of her family meant she sat alone, surrounded by empty chairs. Jon had gone South with his new wife, Bran went in the opposite direction soon after to ready things on the Wall and Arya… Sansa had no idea where Arya was. She could be in Braavos or King’s Landing or any place in between. She’d left without saying goodbye, using Bran to pass along her apology like a coward. She was upset and hurt but she needed to be strong. A Stark was needed to maintain order in the North and rule Winterfell and there was no one else. 

Not even the lack of her family could lessen the crowded feel of the room. Every Northern house pledged to them had representatives there, most were staying at Winterfell until the war concluded. The troops spent the days training both in the yard and outside the walls. The craftsman worked tirelessly to fashion all manner of deadly tools from the dragonglass Daenerys and Jon sent and the Lords and Ladies themselves demanded an audience with Sansa at every turn, so they could yell and voice their discontent. 

“Perhaps we made a mistake,” Lord Glover said loudly. “We need a King in the North!”

Sansa could tell from the murmurs of agreement, this wasn’t going to be easy. Before she could respond, Mazin did. “Glover’s right. We didn’t choose Jon to be our King so he could fuck a foreign slut!”

“I don’t care what he says,” Cerwyn began. Sansa tried to interrupt, but her words were easily drowned out by the louder, more aggressive voices. “He’s no use to us in the South. We’re Northmen! We don’t need their fucking help!” The anger around the room grew more insistent. “Umbers with us too,” Cerwyn concluded nudging the little boy who now led his house. 

“We need a new King,” Glover summarized. “One who can’t be bought by a nicely shaped ass. The boy forgets his history. The Targaryens killed his grandfather and uncle. They are no friends of mine and no friends to the North.”

Sansa had thought that by letting them share their frustrations, things would ease but they were only growing worse. While only the brave few were speaking their concerns, she could see on many of the silent faces looks of agreement. She needed to end this, now. She stood and immediately drew Brienne a step closer, in an unnecessary act of protection. “Enough!” she shouted as loudly as she could. “Lords please! I understand you are upset but now is not the time for us to be fighting amongst ourselves. We have a war in the North and a war in the South. The only way any of us are going to survive the winter is if we unite.” 

“Apologies m’lady,” Cerwyn said, “but your brother has forgotten his duty to us. He was to be our King, not some Dragon’s wife.” 

“Jon has forgotten nothing, not our history and certainly not his duty. How many of you have seen a White Walker? How many of you,” she began moving out from behind the table with Brienne in tow, “have fought one, killed one? You Lord Cerwyn?”

She didn’t need his reply, she already knew the answer, they all did. Jon was their King in part because he was the only one who truly understood what was coming for them. “And Lord Mazin, you met Daenerys when she was here, did you not? Did she seem as mad as her father to you?” 

“I didn’t speak with her much m’lady,” he confessed. 

“I did,” Sansa made clear. “I spoke with her, I watched her, and I listened, and she is fair and generous. If that’s not enough, I remind you she saved Jon’s life as well as many others.” 

Now in the center of the room Sansa stopped and let them congregate around her. She set her focus on Glover, the unofficial leader of the unrest. “M’lord,” she said making it known she was talking to him and him alone. “If you feel that way about my sister, your King’s wife, I’ll send the raven and inform Jon. I’m sure he’d meet you anywhere of your choosing to settle your dispute, in the Old Way.” 

The once unruly room was suddenly so quiet she heard nothing but her own breathing. Even before his defeat of the Boltons Jon was known as one of the best swordsmen in the North. In fair combat the elder Lord wouldn’t stand a chance. Forcing the issue would only hasten his premature death. Not even Glover’s best champion could win. He held his ground but bowed his head in submission. “That won’t be necessary Lady Stark, I meant no disrespect.” 

Sansa said nothing for a few moments, allowing each of them to relax. “Tensions are high and you’re worried. I understand, I’m worried too but we shouldn’t be bickering like children. Jon left the North to gain an army and rally support. No matter how badly you wish it, none of us can defeat the Night King alone. When he returns, and make no mistake, he will return he needs us to be strong, united and ready to fight.”

“Lady Stark’s right,” Mormont said, her small voice packed tight with authority. “The enemy is out there,” she said pointing to the window, “not in here.” 

“I know my brother well, as most of you do. While it’s true we need every man and woman we can spare to fight the White Walkers, he would never force you to follow him, nor risk your lives on his behalf. Go if you wish but consider this, if we fall here, how long before it is your homes the dead are approaching?”

The offer to leave wasn’t accepted by anyone and after a full minute Sansa was satisfied her point had been made. “Lords, Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to.” 

It wasn’t until they were safely around the corner that Brienne’s stoic expression broke and she smiled. “Nicely done m’lady.”

Sansa grinned too. “Thank you.” 

R-C

With Yara on the throne, peace didn’t come easy. Many Ironborn rejected the idea of a female ruler, Greyjoy or not. This ensured Arya had her fill of the violence and death she craved. Many tried to seize control, thinking Yara unfit. The fighting was vicious but was beginning to wane as more and more died by her hands, at Yara’s feet or on Theon’s sword. 

Yara ordered her powerful uncle hung from the bridge where Balon died, as a warning to all who might oppose her. It had the desired effect and slowly things started to calm. 

The Iron Fleet was unique. Many were uncertain of Yara’s intentions, of her allegiance to Daenerys and her plans to shift them away from raiding. Long before she aligned herself with the Dragon Yara proved herself to be a capable captain, worthy of her difficult father’s praise and love, as well as the respect of the sailors who served under her. When word spread that it was she, wounded and weak that killed the much-feared Euron, dozens of crews flocked to her banner. 

Not unlike the Dothraki she’d encountered after meeting Daenerys, Arya could tell the Iron Islanders favored strength over cunning, and brute force over deception. It’s why they’d followed Euron after he murdered his brother, their true King, and why they were willing to tolerate Yara, at least until someone could best her. 

The Salt Queen healed quickly becoming strong, determined and committed. Arya couldn’t deny she recognized some of the same features in Yara that had originally attracted her to Daenerys. Theon was also impressive, in his own way. She’d been raised with him, like kin, regardless of how he’d come to Winterfell. She remembered his crude jokes, his taunting words and endless teasing but the years had changed him as surely as they had her. In Yara’s company Theon was polite, courtesy and helpful. Not once since she found him had she heard him muttering under his breath, as he often did when Robb issued an order, or itching for a fight, the way he used to by calling Jon ‘bastard.’ 

It was nearly a month after she met Yara that Arya began to consider moving on. It would be only days now before she made her escape. When Yara summoned her, she expected the other woman somehow sensed her impending departure and meant to stop it. 

Theon met her just outside the room where Yara held court. “Arya, there you,” he said smiling at the sight of her. “My sister wishes to speak with you.” 

She fell in step beside the older man. “Heard you put an end to the commotion on Orkmont,” she said, resting a friendly hand on his shoulder. They hadn’t been close when she was a child, but things were different now. He’d proven himself worthy of her respect. Their new bond was born from the fact that Theon was one of the few who truly understood all Arya had lost. He knew of Rickon’s innocence, Bran’s mischievousness, Sansa’s beauty, Robb’s honor and Jon’s quiet strength. Like her, he’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s grace and her father’s love. 

He grinned proudly. “Didn’t even need to fight. I offered the rebels their own ship in the Iron Fleet and a place at the head of the war against King’s Landing. Turns out you aren’t the only one eager for a fight with the Lannisters.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

Yara was flirting with a serving girl when they entered. She immediately shoed the woman away and stood. “You found her. Good work little brother!” She held out her arms in greeting. “Arya, welcome.”

Since being freed Yara was recovering well. Plenty of drinking, fighting and fucking didn’t seem to slow her in the slightest. She had scars on her wrists. ankles and throat, and still healing wounds on her back and legs but Arya knew better than most that marks like those could be powerful motivators. She had no doubt Yara would be stronger for it. “Queen Greyjoy,” she said formally. She may have recognized her as the Lady Reaper of Pyke, but she knelt for only one woman and it wasn’t Yara.

“News from the world,” she said snapping her fingers and commanding a servant step forward, scrolls in hand. “The Dragon is sending her freed men to solidify our bargain. I told her they aren’t required, that you are more than enough alone, but I fear they’ll arrive before word reaches Dragonstone.”

Discussions of Daenerys brought no shortage of heartache, but Arya was an expert at hiding her feelings. “The Unsullied are superior soldiers. Your men will benefit from having them here.”

“I agree,” Yara said, waving Arya closer. “The Queen is pleased with you. You saved me, and now she has the strongest fleet in the world at her back.”

Calling back on her time in Braavos she answered in another tongue. “Valar Dohaeris, we all must serve.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “I love it when you talk like that,” she teased. “If you want to serve I can think of a few ways you might be of use to me.” 

Arya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Since the rescue Yara had made no secret of her affections for the killer. She liked Yara more than most but that wasn’t enough for her to fall into her bed, however temporary and meaningless it might be. “Very kind,” she replied, “but I’m needed elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Yara repeated. 

“You’re leaving?” Theon interjected. 

She looked behind her at the man she’d come to trust and nodded. Then she turned back to Yara to explain. “The Iron Islands are stable but many of the Queen’s enemies remain. Ellaria Sand waits for aid as you did. I’ll save her if I can.”

“You are always speaking of the Queen’s wishes, the Queen’s orders, not the King’s. Daenerys is wed to your brother now is she not?” Yara already knew the answer so Arya just waited. “Why are you sworn to her and not him?”

Fearing offending the Stark, Theon tried to reign in his sister’s bluntness slightly. “Yara, leave her be.” 

She was right, that was a distinction Arya made clearly and it wasn’t accidental. “I’ve always been loyal to Jon. Before they were set to be married, he swore to follow Daenerys as you did, I honored that oath by following his lead. My brother has no desire to sit on the Iron Throne,” she said confidently, knowing it to be true. “When the wars are over Daenerys will rule the South and Jon the North.”

“But they’re wed,” Yara protested. “They won’t separate, will they?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I guess that’s something they’ll need to decide when the time comes.” 

She knew what to expect when she saw the spark in Yara’s eye. “Jon Snow isn’t the only one who needs a queen, you know. You could stay. I’m sure Daenerys wouldn’t mind and think of all the fun we could have together…”

Arya chose her words carefully. “I’m not the right woman for you.”

She made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “Not into women eh?” Arya said nothing, and the twinkle returned even brighter than before. “Ah, I see, you’re already promised to another,” she predicted. 

“Be well.” 

Before she could go Yara was calling out to her, snapping her fingers again. “If you’re sure you must leave, take this with you. It came from Dragonstone with the other.” Her steps nearly faltered. A message for her? She took a breath to steady her pounding heart. Upon being handed the sealed scroll she knew who’d sent it at once. She also knew she wasn’t strong enough to open it yet. 

R-C

Four days into her trip toward the Westerosi mainland she found the courage to break the Dragon’s seal. The elegant writing, so unlike her own, brought the tightly controlled memories flooding back. 

Arya,

I should have known where you’d go and what you’d do. Thank you. Not just for what you’ve done for Yara, the kingdoms and our people but what you’ve done for me. 

I found your letter shortly after you left. Thank you for that as well. It was exactly what I needed at precisely the proper time.

As I’m sure you’ve heard, we’ve returned to Dragonstone. Things have settled and there is much to occupy my time, but not nearly enough to keep me from thinking of you. 

I understand why you couldn’t stay. It was selfish of me to ask you to, but I’m going to be selfish again. Come home. Jon is worried about you constantly and I miss you desperately. I know that’s a lot to ask, possibly too much, but I hope you’ll listen. 

I’ll keep you in my prayers, hoping this letter finds you well, safe and already on your way back to me. 

Until next time,  
With My Love,  
Daenerys

It was physically painful to refuse her. Especially when her pleas were so in line with what Arya wanted to do, but she just couldn’t. Jon and Daenerys were still newlyweds and they deserved a chance to see if their feelings could grow. They wouldn’t be able to do that if Arya was lurking in every shadow. She blew out the candle and closed her eyes, fully aware that if she did sleep it would be filled with dreams that did nothing but torment her come morning. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I know there isn’t much in this one, but I needed some time to pass to move things along. Next up, I’ve got more flashbacks, Arya’s reply and Jon and Daenerys finally talking about Arya. 
> 
> The next update should be relatively quick. Hope you’ll stick around.


	5. Chapter 5

After sending Arya’s letter to Pyke Daenerys’s mood soured with every day that passed without a reply. By the time the raven did come, she was snapping rudely at servants, ignoring her advisors and pacing like a wild animal around her chambers when she should have been sleeping. 

She was sitting at Jon’s side, doing what she could to listen to the status of her kingdoms when a servant entered quietly and hurried to Tyrion’s side. Whispered words were exchanged before he patted the young man on the arm in thanks and took what he offered. Daenerys paid them only the briefest amount of attention as it happened. 

“Jon,” Tyrion said during a lull in the conversation.

“What’s the matter?”

“Word from your sister,” he answered, not looking up from the page he was reading. 

“How is Sansa?” Daenerys asked, purposefully trying to illicit a reaction from her smitten Hand. 

“Not her, Arya.”

Daenerys and Jon shared a heavy, serious look. “Can you give us a moment please,” Jon asked the room politely. 

Murmurs started as everyone looked at one another, each of them expecting Daenerys to intercede. She wasn’t in the mood for this. “Go!” she commanded roughly. 

Only Tyrion and Missandei remained with the couple after the others had gone. “What does my sister say?” Jon wondered for the both of them. 

“Seems there is a measure of peace in the Iron Islands.”

“That’s good,” Jon inserted. 

“What of Arya?” Daenerys barked, causing a speculative expression from the Lannister. 

“She’s left Pyke, your Grace,” Tyrion explained, countering her bite with formality. “The letter doesn’t say where she’s going next, but the private one might.” 

“There was a second letter?” Jon clarified quickly, before Daenerys could snap at him again. 

He held it up as proof of its existence. Reading from the scroll he’d opened now he quoted. “She says, ‘if the dwarf opens the private scroll enclosed he’ll die a painful, slow death.’” 

Daenerys had to chew the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Somehow Arya could make even threats of horrible pain amusing to her. Tyrion got up from his seat and walked to a spot between Daenerys and Jon’s chairs. He set the scroll on the table, doing his duty. “Thank you, Tyrion.” Jon looked over his shoulder at Missandei, unaware that she knew all the details of Daenerys’s past with Arya. “Missandei can you give my wife and I a moment alone please?”

“Of course,” she said, ducking her head and chasing after Tyrion. 

They weren’t out the door before Daenerys was reaching for the scroll. “It’s not their fault!” Jon complained in a low voice from her side. 

His words kept her from breaking the seal and seeing whether Arya was in fact coming back to her. “What now?”

He gave her a stern, knowing look, one that made it clear she should understand exactly what he meant. “It’s not their fault you’re upset,” he clarified. “We decided to do this, and we decided to keep our secrets. It’s not fair to take it out on everyone else.”

She knew he was right, but she wasn’t ready to admit that aloud. He let his words sink in and then gave her a light, easy smile, one that reminded her of a time before Arya, when he’d been enough for her. “I’ll give you a few minutes alone.”

He was on his feet by the time she managed to get her tongue working again, her eyes dancing between the pain written on his face and the scroll tempting her on the table. “Stay,” she allowed gently. “It might be for you.”

Jon snickered humorlessly and shook his head, causing a long curl to move into his field of view. He wiped it away quickly. “We both know it’s not.” That was when what she’d known the day of their wedding became abundantly clear, Jon deserved a far better wife than her. “If you write back tell her I miss her and love her,” he said as he held tightly to the back of her chair, purposefully avoiding touching her. “Tell her when she’s ready she’ll be welcome, in Winterfell or anywhere else, as long as I’m alive.” 

She’d always known Arya’s absence wasn’t purely hers. Jon, Sansa and Bran all cared for her too, but Jon’s words branded the fact permanently in the deepest part of her. “She doesn’t blame you, you know,” Daenerys whispered before he could go, “not once. The opposite in fact.”

There was a delay before he responded, as if he was deciding whether or not to broach the subject. She could understand why. Arya was a difficult topic for them. “She didn’t blame you, did she?” 

Daenerys wished. She deserved the blame. She was the one who pursued Arya, then chose to bind with Jon for the good of her people. Everything they were suffering now was her doing. “No, she never blamed me. In all the time we talked about it the only anger she ever displayed was directed at herself.”

For the first time since he’d gotten up Jon put his hands on her, touching her tense shoulders. It felt nice to share the weight of her pain and she relaxed in response. “That sounds like her,” he said after a quiet laugh. “How could she blame herself? None of this was her fault.”

She realized then that it was wrong not to talk about Arya. By avoiding mention of her they were doing a disservice to the price she was paying for the three of them and their lies. Jon got a wife and a claim of legitimacy, Daenerys a husband, a stronger army and hopefully a child, but Arya only lost. She lost her family for a second time and she lost Daenerys, a woman who loved her sincerely. It wasn’t the least bit fair. “I know,” she agreed, reaching back and covering his hand with hers. “I know, but she believed she got in the way of us.” 

“She was wrong!” Jon objected. “She never…”

He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know to be true. “I know,” she confirmed, looking back at him, fully aware of the tears threatening to fall. “Come sit,” she directed. “I’ll tell you how Arya felt about all this.” 

She waited patiently until Jon returned to her side, twisting her body to face him as he did the same. “It was just a day after we announced our plans for marriage,” she recalled sadly. 

R-C

Two Months Before the Wedding

Less than a day after Daenerys and Jon had agreed a marriage would be best for both sides, she found Arya in Winterfell, hastily packing her things. “Where are you going?” she asked, feeling dread at the sight in front of her. 

“I don’t know,” she said without stopping her work. 

Daenerys entered the room and closed the door after her. “Arya,” she said softly, causing the hand to still inside her bag. “We talked about this, you don’t have to go anywhere. It’s not a true marriage, not really.”

She spun then, graceful and wild, her eyes bright. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know!” she contested with force. “Jon and I discussed it. He understands my heart can never be his.”

She expected a softening of Arya’s passionate features, but she inadvertently made things worse. She dropped the bag to the floor at her feet. “Do you know the story of my parents?”

She’d heard many tales of Westerosi history, Tyrion insisted upon it. She’d even snuck away to the library of Winterfell to learn more about the history of the Starks after she met Arya, but she couldn’t say she heard anything specific about her parents and their union. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Before your father ordered my grandfather and uncle murdered my uncle Brandon was pledged to marry my mother.”

Hints of the wrongs her father had committed against this family were evident throughout Winterfell. Daenerys had wandered about freely, avoiding only the infamous crypt where the Starks rested. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to face evidence of what her father had done. She opened her mouth to speak but her tongue was too dry to form words. She hadn’t known Arya’s mother was supposed to marry her uncle. 

“My parents barely knew one another when they wed,” she continued. “They were strangers, but in time their marriage became real, their love honest. I’ve heard whispers your wedding to the Khal had the same result.”

Although she wanted to, she couldn’t deny Arya’s point. She had come to love Drogo, more than she thought possible on the day they were joined. Their current situation was entirely different though. She had been little more than a girl when she was promised to the Khal, completely unknowing of what it meant to be a wife. She’d never loved anyone before, her heart was free to accept him as they came to understand one another. “That’s not the same thing,” she tried. “It’s different now, different with us.”

For the first time she saw a tiny crack in the wall Arya put between them. “You loved him before,” she said, the wall back up again, higher than it was. “Before I got in the way.”

“You didn’t get in the way,” Daenerys shouted. She reached for Arya and was hurt when the younger woman pulled her arm from reach. “I like your brother, I do, but it was never love, not for him and not for me.”

Arya remained unconvinced. “Not yet, but it could be. The Priestess says you’ll have a child. You might grow to love him as my mother did my father. Children have a way of making such bonds.”

She was speechless, unsure of how to respond to that. Arya took her silence as an admission and she picked up her bag again, once again gathering her belongings. She knew she had to say something, so she focused on the part of her statement that she could speculate on. “I’m not sure I trust that Melisandre or her supposed Lord of Light.”

“She’s a cunt,” Arya spat with hate, causing Daenerys to shiver in response, “but that doesn’t make her wrong. I saw a Priest loyal to the Lord of Light bring a man back to this world from death.”

There were no shortage of questions she wanted to ask about that, but they’d have to wait. Daenerys’s focus needed to be on Arya and getting her to stay. “Even if she’s right that doesn’t mean I can’t be with you.”

“You’re marrying my brother!” she retorted with enough fire in her words to impress even the Dragon. 

She considered reminding Arya that Jon was not her true brother, but she knew that would likely only make things worse. She swallowed down the words and searched for another route to her desire. “As I said Jon knows how I feel about you. He understands we’re marrying not for love but for the good of our kingdoms. He wouldn’t stop us…”

“You can’t be serious?!” Arya said with a growl, cutting her off. “You want me to be your whore? Hide away in the bedroom while you play wife to Jon all day?” 

“That’s not what I said!” Daenerys protested. It occurred to her how similar this conversation was to one she’d had a lifetime ago with Daario. Then, he’d been willing to be her secret in Westeros, to let her marry another while they remained lovers. She refused. Now she was on the other side of the argument and had a new appreciation for how he felt. 

“If you think I could do that,” Arya said seriously, “to Jon or to you, you don’t know the first thing about me.” 

Apparently, Jon had heard enough. “She’s so damn stubborn. She always was.” 

Daenerys hadn’t realized she’d been crying until Jon reached out and wiped away the tears from her face. She didn’t stop him. “Yes, she is.”

Jon smiled kindly. “She’s right you know, about her parents at least. Our father... her father,” he corrected, “her father did come to love her mother deeply. The only blemish on their marriage was me and as we now know he hadn’t wronged her at all. I was never the bastard he claimed, nor Arya’s brother, I was Lord Stark’s nephew and yours.”

“You’ll always be her brother,” Daenerys disagreed firmly. “Arya told me once that she used to get in trouble as a girl for calling you Jon Stark instead of Jon Snow.”

A faraway look formed in his eyes and she knew he too was lost in the past. “Yes,” he admitted when he returned to her. “She did. In fact, it was the only thing we ever argued about as children.”

“What happened?” Daenerys couldn’t help but ask. She’d once told Jon she didn’t want to hear stories about Arya unless they came from the woman herself, but exceptions existed for every rule. 

“It was long ago,” he recalled. “Years before she left for King’s Landing and I for the Wall. Her mother and I always had a difficult relationship. Lady Stark wasn’t openly hostile, but I was a constant reminder of what she thought was her husband’s single indiscretion.”

“That must have been difficult,” she acknowledged. 

“It’s why I joined the Night’s Watch, but before that, I’d be teased for being a Snow. Theon, Robb, Sansa, all used my name as a weapon against me when we quarrelled. For her part, Lady Stark just treated me coldly, ignoring me outright, hating any time I was with the Lord and discounting my existence at every turn.” 

“That sounds horrible.”

“One spring I remember it was particularly tense. A feast was held, and Lady Stark insisted I sit away from the family, with the servants rather than the other children. In an attempt to keep peace in his marriage Ned agreed, albeit reluctantly.” He took a deep breath, “Afterwards I thought things would improve but they only grew worse. For weeks I could do nothing right, not even my absence was enough to please her. Finally, I asked my father…” he corrected himself again, “I asked Arya’s father what I’d done wrong. He told me the fault wasn’t mine, said that Arya had gone to her mother and he before the feast and pleaded, crying for them to let me join the family. Claimed she’d never ask for another thing in her life if only they’d agree to legitimize me.”

Daenerys found herself hanging on every word. “That was kind of her.”

“It was,” he agreed, “but it was also foolish. She was too young to understand, incapable of realizing how impossible it would be for them to grant her wish.”

“What did you do?”

“I was younger too, and furious. I blamed Arya for all the pain and struggles I’d had, since the feast and before. I went to her, called her stupid, told her to mind her own business and to keep her nose out of things she didn’t understand,” he confessed, each word more regretful than those previous. “I said I wasn’t her brother.” 

“You were a boy,” she justified on his behalf. 

“I was, and that was one of the few times I ever saw Arya cry. She threw herself at my feet, before I could storm out of her room and begged me to forgive her. She said she’d fix it, promised to do whatever I wanted as long as I’d be her brother again.”

“What happened next?”

He chuckled and rubbed his thumb under his eye as if scratching an itch. Daenerys suspected it was more than that. “I could never stay mad at her. I picked her up and told her I was sorry, that I didn’t mean all the terrible things I’d said. I swore I’d always be her brother and she promised to always be my sister.”

“A vow she kept,” Daenerys remarked, bringing their conversation full circle. 

Jon’s eyes fell to the scroll still waiting unread. “Yes, she did.” He stood from his chair and kept his voice low. “I’ll leave you to your letter.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly, “for telling me all that.”

“You’re welcome Daenerys, I’ll see you at dinner.”

R-C

She may have wanted to rip into the scroll as soon as it was made available to her, but alone in the meeting room she was afraid she’d be interrupted so Daenerys hid the scroll inside her dress and tried to escape up to her chambers where she could have a measure of privacy. 

Daenerys was really rather proud of herself for making it all the way to her desk before she used a golden bladed knife with a dragon engraved in the handle to pierce the seal. 

Daenerys,

Thank you for your letter. I am safe. Fighting in the Iron Islands has slowed, your Unsullied are due any day and Yara has the support of the majority of the Ironborn. There is no need for me there any longer. 

While I wish for little more than to see you all again, I can not. Not yet anyway. I hope the day comes when that isn’t so, but it is today.

Prayers? I’ve said many of late as well. There is much wickedness left in the world and in me. Many lives lost, and many more yet to be taken. 

Please take care of Jon and let him take care of you. 

-A

P.S – If the seal is broken on this scroll when you receive it, feed the Imp to Drogon. 

When she finished she wasn’t shocked to find Missandei in the room, pulling her into a fierce hug. “It’s going to be alright,” she promised. 

Hours after she’d run out of tears Missandei remained with her, holding her, and combing her hair with gentle strokes of her fingers. Daenerys did her best to explain why she was upset. She spoke of how she’d sent word to Arya, asking her to return. When it came time for her to admit that Arya refused, she couldn’t get the words out and simply handed over the tear stained scroll instead. 

“What’s this talk of prayers Khaleesi?” she asked as she set the page down carefully so not to cause it damage. “You once told me you do not believe.”

“I didn’t,” she said after hiccupping in a very unladylike way, punishment surely for the strain she put on her body with all the crying. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“What changed?”

The answer was instantaneous. “Arya.”

R-C

Five Months Before the Wedding

She was the daughter of The Mad King, the sister of a tyrant and a survivor of more atrocities than any one person should be forced to endure but she’d always stood alone. Even surrounded by people, her will, her strength, her determination was internal. She was Daenerys Stormborn and that alone was enough. 

She’d done many terrible things in her life. During her early time with the Khal, she allowed women to be victimized around her by the khalasar, too afraid to speak up. She let her brother abuse her until she found the courage to disobey him and after Drogo, she killed. The Witch who cured him was one of the first casualties of her reign but certainly not the last. 

She never lost a single night’s rest over the deaths she put in motion in Astapor. Kraznys mo Nakloz and the other Masters deserved far worse than the quick deaths they received whether by Unsullied spear, sword or dragon fire. The same could be said for her recent journey beyond the Wall. The Undead she ordered Drogon to burn by the hundred were no longer people, they were things. Mindless shells of their former selves. She was doing them a kindness by razing them to ash and letting them rest. 

Given the chance, she’d do it all over again, every bit of it. Which was why it was so strange for Daenerys to wake up on one of her earliest nights in Winterfell in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather. Memories of her actions between Highgarden and King’s Landing refused to be dismissed. She could smell the charred flesh of the soldiers she killed by the dozen, still hear the cries of others over the shrieks of the Dothraki as they rode in to avenge Daenerys’s losses. The pained squeal of Drogon as he was pierced by the bolt from that tool of war clearly designed to kill her children, it was all there at the forefront of her mind. So many died and for what? Because she was angry. She prided herself on being better than Viserys, better than her father, but as she lay awake night after night, then week after week she began to doubt that reality. 

In the early morning hours, the confines of her room felt too tight. Getting up she dressed in the thick furs and cloaks needed to brave the Northern air and headed outside. As it was with all such places a small number of guards patrolled regardless of the hour, but Daenerys expected to be alone with her thoughts. She went into the courtyard and looked up at the stars. She wasn’t fond of the cold, but she could see the appeal. She’d never stared at a sky so clear, not in Essos and certainly not in the South. Every breath that left her nose caused a small puff of air to form and she got to follow it with her eyes as it danced along the winds. 

“Trouble sleeping?” a voice asked her. It wasn’t loud, in fact it was eerily quiet, but the lack of other sounds made it deceptively strong. 

She jumped, surprised that she hadn’t heard anyone approaching. When she recovered enough to see who had startled her so, she saw the last person she expected. Arya Stark, the woman she’d been unable to find long enough to speak to since their brief meeting at the Weirwood now was right in front of her. Not only that, she instigated their conversation. “Arya,” she said idiotically. 

The corner of her lip twitched just as it had the night they met. “You remember.”

Daenerys didn’t feel obligated to tell her their encounter was impossible to forget. She didn’t say that she’d been able to think of little else consistently. If it wasn’t for the nightmares and memories of her bloody deeds, Arya would likely be the center of her thoughts most often. “Is something the matter?” Daenerys wondered, feeling concern for the woman she barely knew. She tried to come up with a logical reason the daughter of Winterfell would be wandering the courtyard in the middle of the night but couldn’t. “Praying again?” she guessed, just to end the quiet hanging between them. 

She was amused by the question. “Not this time,” she admitted, her expression turning sombre. “Some things not even the Gods can fix.”

The reply was delivered with such brutal honesty that Daenerys wanted to help. Under the Weirwood Tree she’d been embarrassed by Arya’s comments, by her difficult nature but now that felt unimportant. Remembering the nightmare that stirred her from sleep she accepted Arya’s statement in a way she might not have before. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Would you like to talk about it?” 

“No,” she said at once. “What about you? Why is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms roaming the frozen ground of Winterfell in the dark?”

Daenerys was so interested in the fact that Arya called her the ‘rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms’ that she almost didn’t answer the question. “It’s not important,” she said, not wanting to burden Arya when she obviously had her own issues to contend with. 

“I’d wager it is,” she said without malice. “If not, you wouldn’t be here.” She held out an arm, a gesture for Daenerys to go that way. She couldn’t explain why she went without comment, but she did. Next to a nearly extinguished fire a table waited with a long wooden bench on each side. “Sit,” Arya directed. She found herself doing as she was told, a rare occurrence for her. 

With her seated Arya turned away. At first Daenerys thought she meant to leave her but her worry was short lived as Arya went only as far as a stack of cut fire wood. Picking up a pair of logs with ease she carried them to brazier and set them in. The added weight nearly stifled the limited flame but seconds later Arya was using a dagger and flint to create a fresh spark. The fire caught quickly, and grey eyes looked away from her work to the table and the Queen. “That’ll warm you up in a few minutes,” she predicted. 

She wanted to refuse, to say she wasn’t cold but that would have been a lie. Instead she went a different path. “Thank you.”

A nod was the only indication her praise had been heard before Arya stepped over the bench and sat across from her. “Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you, your Grace?”

“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” she said, unwilling to acknowledge the new development she hadn’t yet come to terms with. 

Arya’s face showed only understanding, not ridicule or humor as she feared. “A lucky guess. You surely had a trying day, wrangling those pompous loud-mouth Lords who fill my family home. If nothing was the matter, I suspect you would be regaining your strength for tomorrow’s repeat performance.”

“You don’t approve of your brother’s choice of ally?” she asked. Talking about others was a strategic choice to avoid confessing what was really on her mind. 

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think, I’m not the King.”

“You’re his sister. I’m sure Jon values your opinion.” Of this there was no doubt. Upon learning Arya wasn’t dead, Jon was overjoyed. The return voyage to Winterfell couldn’t be over soon enough, he wanted to see her so badly. During their time together on the ship he often spoke of her, always fondly. 

“If they remain loyal to Jon and honor their pledges I’ll tolerate them, no matter how I feel.”

“And if they don’t?” she wondered, eager to get any glimpse inside the mind of this woman. 

The answer came so quick, so naturally it couldn’t possibly be a lie. “Then I’ll kill them all.”

The longer she stayed in Winterfell, the more she learned about the Stark clan. Bran was crippled by a mysterious fall from the tower when he was just a boy and in the years since had developed an incredible talent to see into the past, present and possible futures. He was a stoic young man who rarely revealed himself, but he’d been kind to Daenerys and those who served her since they arrived and privately she admired his perseverance. From Tyrion she learned just how much his family made Sansa suffer before she was saved. Still, the woman had a kindness about her, a decency that Daenerys had always heard described when people talked about the Starks. Then there was Jon. She’d taken him to bed before she realized his true identity. He wasn’t the Bastard of Winterfell as the world believed but in truth Aegon Targaryen, her brother’s son birthed by Lyanna Stark, Arya’s aunt. The news was shocking to all of them. The siblings always raised to believe Jon was the product of a tryst their father had with a whore while away at war. Jon told her that Ned always avoided the question of his mother and now they could understand why. His parentage remained a secret for the time being. First it was held to give everyone time to come to terms with it and later because unity in the North was necessary to defeat the enemies that opposed them. At Bran’s insistence they learned the Northmen wouldn’t follow a Targaryen King. More than once during her time in the North she heard it said, ‘The only King we follow is named Stark!’ Lastly there was Arya, the puzzle Daenerys couldn’t resist trying to solve. Her contingent of warriors; Dothraki, knights, and Unsullied were some of the best fighters the world had ever known and they all gave Arya a wide berth as they moved about Winterfell. It reminded her of the books she read as a girl about wild animals, one predator deadly to most, cautious upon recognizing another, stronger one. It only made her more intriguing to Daenerys. 

She tried not to ask, but she couldn’t help it, the dream was still vivid in her mind. “Do you ever regret the lives you’ve taken?” She wanted the words back as soon as they were out. “I’m sorry, I should…”

“Sometimes,” Arya admitted. “Very few, but even those who deserve it can come back to haunt you.”

Daenerys couldn’t disagree. The Lannister soldiers she killed, the ones she’d had murdered, during and after the battle would have put her head on a spike in King’s Landing given the opportunity, yet they tormented her. “How do you deal with it,” she wondered, hoping her new acquaintance had the answers to her problems. 

“Wander Winterfell in the dark until you find someone to talk to.”

Daenerys appreciated the attempt to ease the seriousness and she smiled. Across the table Arya did the same. “Who are you praying to exactly when you ‘pray for the wicked?’”

She was treading on thin ice and knew it. At any moment she could overstep and ruin the brief connection she felt to the confessed murderer. “In Braavos I was taught there isn’t a God with only seven faces as the Septons tell us, nor countless Gods from the forest as many believe here but rather only one God, who wears the face of every deity, from every land.”

“You were in Braavos?” she asked, feeling excitement as she thought of her former home. That had been a time when she didn’t know the horrors of the world. Viserys was only petty and entitled, not yet vile or cruel. When she lived there she foolishly believed she could have a normal life, be a healer, or a merchant’s wife perhaps. “I lived there as a child.” 

“The only truly Free City,” Arya recalled with a secret smile, “at least until the Breaker of Chains and her dragons changed things.”

Violet eyes met grey and Daenerys felt shy. She blushed and looked away. “I did what any in my place would have done,” she contended. 

“I don’t think so,” Arya challenged. “How many powerful people came before you? How many of privilege and means were born, lived and died without doing a fucking thing? I’ve heard your Hand say you wish to ‘break the wheel’ that has been crushing Westeros for too long. Is this true?”

Hearing praise for her accomplishments was not uncommon but the way Arya spoke, so bluntly, testing Daenerys’s beliefs one moment and then supporting her the next, it had her heart thumping at the pace of a racing horse. “People shouldn’t live under the boot of women like Cersei Lannister. They deserve better.”

“That,” Arya said, bringing her fist down on the table for effect, “is how you live with the horrible things you’re forced to do. Remember why it’s important. It won’t wash it all away, no matter what the Septas say, but it will make it easier to live with.”

Daenerys was far too pleased to have an answer to worry about how Arya seemed to know what she was thinking without being told. “Is that how you do it?”

She snickered quietly in the cold, a sound almost unnoticeable despite their closeness. “I’m afraid my motives are far less noble than yours, your Grace.”

“Call me Daenerys, please,” she instructed. “When you use my title, I feel as though I’m the victim of a joke I don’t understand.” 

“I apologize Daenerys,” she said immediately, sounding sincere. “My contempt is not with you, but with the position you hold.”

“You don’t like Queens?”

“The last time a Southern Queen entered these walls she ruined my entire life.” 

Daenerys felt foolish for even asking, she should have figured that out on her own. “I’m sorry,” Daenerys said with as much feeling as she could. “Did you enjoy your time in Braavos?” she asked, hoping to guide them to a safer topic. 

“It was necessary,” she answered cryptically. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means the girl who left Westeros was incapable of avenging those she lost. She was weak, angry and consumed by hate.”

“And now?” Daenerys couldn’t help but ask. 

“I’m stronger now,” she said looking down at her hand. She spread apart her fingers and Daenerys noticed for the first time a scar that ran between her fourth and fifth fingers. “Slightly less angry, and wise enough to put my hate to good use.”

Daenerys reached out and touched the scar she saw, surprising both of them in the process. “What happened?”

“At the temple, they would beat me if I failed a given task. Striking my hands was a common punishment.”

“Did you fail often?” she wanted to know. “What temple?”

“Frequently and I was trained by the House of Black and White.”

Every Braavosi knew of that particular place. A legion of assassins, often declared the best in the world. The disciples who served there were said to be gifted in magic and deadlier than ten average soldiers. She recalled how casually her companion mentioned killing, during their first meeting and tonight. That made a little more sense now. She also understood why her bravest warriors acted with caution around the thin woman. 

“Are you frightened?” Arya asked, bringing Daenerys from her thoughts. 

“No,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. She felt just as comfortable in her company as she had minutes before, when she didn’t know. “How did you come to be there?”

Arya looked pleased by the response. “Have you ever heard of Harrenhal, Daenerys?”

They continued like that, talking as if they’d been friends for years until the sun began to rise, warming them and coloring the sky. When she thought back now, that was the beginning of what they would later become. Their first real meaningful contact. The first conversation they had where Daenerys knew who she was talking to. After their meeting she’d hoped to talk to Arya to learn more about her, to quiet the inquires that begged to be asked but even after hours in her company, with Arya openly answering every question she could pose, Daenerys felt no less curiosity. Thankfully, she had plenty of opportunities to learn in the coming days. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I hope the bonding between Arya and Daenerys is enough to keep people interested during the lull in the action. I promise it won’t stay that way for long. Next up, we’ll get a glimpse of a secret connection between two people in Daenerys’s service, Arya goes back to the place she hates most of all and Daenerys loses her temper. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.   
> RC


	6. Chapter 6

In Braavos, learning at he feet of the Faceless Men Arya thought she’d been forsaken by the people of Westeros. For years while she honed her skills and recited her list she believed no one knew she still lived and perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps Arya Stark was as dead as everyone thought. She’d been a good student, mastering her craft and becoming No One. 

She left Arya behind when she got on the ship. It wasn’t uncommon for her to go weeks without remembering who she’d been before she’d taken her first face. That’s why it was so unexpected when as she strolled through the markets, trying to decide what she wanted to eat, she heard a voice calling to her former self. “Arya Stark.”

The man who spoke the dead girl’s name was clearly from her former homeland, a Southerner, but definitely from the other side of the sea. He wore the clothes of a middle station, a man of importance but not title. Such men didn’t come to Braavos without cause. She immediately wondered who sent him. “Arya Stark’s dead.” With that said she forgot her hunger and turned down an alley, curling around a corner to disappear. 

She heard him before she saw him, the heavy running footsteps as he tried to keep up, the panting breaths as she took him on a tour of her adoptive home. It would have been easy enough to lose him in the crowds, she was confident she knew the Titan City better than he did, whoever he was, but if she did, she wouldn’t get any answers. 

He came around the corner after her, looking in both directions and she pounced, putting her new abilities to work. A knee in his ribs forced him back into an unforgiving wall and the dagger at his neck showed she was serious. “Arya Stark is dead.”

The terror in his green eyes couldn’t be missed. It excited her in ways she’d come to not only accept but anticipate. His voice quivered, and he squirmed like an eel. “L…Lady Olenna Tyre… Tyrell of High…garden knows otherwise,” he stammered. 

When he tried to move his arm, she rewarded him with a knee to the groin. “Don’t!” she cautioned after she’d already stopped him. 

He would have fallen if her strong arms weren’t supporting him. “No w…weapons,” he said vibrating so much that he nicked himself on the tip of her razor-sharp blade. “Letter.”

Why was anyone sending her a letter, and the Tyrells of all people? She knew of them, of course, but she had no friends among their family, no closeness to their people. “Where’s the letter?” she demanded. 

The courier was smart enough not to reach for it again. “Pocket, right.”

She nearly tore the fabric to get inside, when she did it was as he said, a letter and nothing more. She looked at the Rose seal and her gut told her it was authentic. As suddenly as she grabbed him, she released the beaten man and he sagged toward the dirt. The assassin fled before he could recover, staying gone this time. 

Behind a brothel, listening to the pleasured moans of strangers through the open window she broke the seal and read the news contained inside. 

Arya Stark,

My name is Lady Olenna Tyrell from Highgarden. You do not know me personally, but I knew your parents. I counted your mother among my friends and knew her well before she went North to marry. I met your father while he served as Robert’s Hand. I knew him to be an honorable man and not the traitor the Lannisters claim he was. 

I write to you because I’ve become aware of where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. Westeros is rotting, poisoned by those who rule. Your family has suffered greatly at Lannister hands and mine will too if we do not act. 

My granddaughter is promised to Joffrey as your sister once was. I fear she will be forced to live with the same indignities as Sansa if something is not done. 

It’s treason for me to write this but I’m an old woman who has lived a good life and I’m not afraid. Joffrey needs to die. If you are interested in helping me achieve this, send word. 

Sincerely   
Lady Olenna Tyrell

She didn’t know how long she stood there, the moans of the whores and their customers blocked by the thumping in her ears. Vengeance. That’s why she hadn’t succumbed to her wounds, to pain, starvation or exhaustion. She lived so she could one day return and punish those who betrayed her family. There was no question the Tyrell had her own motives, but did they matter? She spoke of Westeros being poisoned. What concern of hers was that? She wasn’t there, and she had enough problems already. 

When she could get her feet moving again she left the alley and dropped the letter in a fire on her way back to the House of Black and White. Westeros’s difficulties were her own, Arya had enough going on. 

It took less than a week for her to change her mind. In that time, Arya Stark’s memories made themselves known more frequently and even with the letter gone, she could recall the words exactly. In the end, her decision was made not out of decency or kindness. She wasn’t going to help because Lady Olenna asked her to, or because it was the right thing to do. She was going to help her kill Lannisters because she wanted them dead and she’d be disappointed to learn they died without Arya being able to claim involvement. 

R-C

Letters were exchanged, a plan formed and then a package sent from Braavos to Highgarden. She spent most of her gold on trusted couriers and the necessary supplies, but it was more than worth it. 

When word came not only that the King didn’t live to survive his wedding day, but also that Tyrion Lannister was imprisoned for the crime Arya felt pride. It hadn’t been as rewarding as if she’d gutted Joffrey with her own sword, but it was better than nothing. He was dead. 

The letters slowed then but didn’t stop. Arya was offered a place at Highgarden. Protection from her enemies and a role among Tyrell soldiers. It was a tempting offer. As a girl accepting such a proposal would have been the fulfillment of all her dreams but things were different now. 

It was more than a year after King Joffrey’s reign ended that she finally made it back to Westeros. On duties from the temple she was sent to a small settlement near The Neck to give the Gift to a minor noble who’d tested the Iron Bank’s patience. 

Before she returned to the Free Cities she took a detour to Highgarden to meet Lady Olenna personally. By coincidence she was away from King’s Landing and back home, handling affairs for her family. In the time since they sent their first letters her granddaughter had married Tommen, a Lannister, but by all accounts, the lesser evil. 

She was escorted to a private terrace, where Olenna had food and drink waiting. “Arya, my friend,” she said embracing the younger woman. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Lady Tyrell.”

The old woman chuckled and motioned for Arya to sit. “Olenna please, we’ve been through too much together to stand on formality.”

They ate and talked together but the conversation remained light. Neither one broached the murder they’d schemed together. When the meal was concluded Olenna called for a servant who brought three large purses of gold. “Payment for services,” she said. “Please accept this with my undying gratitude for all you’ve done.” 

Even without looking inside or feeling the weight Arya was certain she was being overpaid. Taking the gold would have not only replenished her savings but doubled them. She didn’t even consider it. “Keep it.”

The wrinkled face showed her shock for only a moment. “I’m aware of the risks you took to help me Arya. I also know that your order are not only the most talented assassins but also the most highly paid.”

That was true and while Jaqen would be repulsed by her refusal she hadn’t done it for coin. “I’ll kill Lannisters for free,” she said, her voice cold. 

For several seconds, Olenna considered objecting but didn’t. “Very well. Should you change your mind or have need of anything, I am in your debt.”

“Thank you,” she replied simply. 

“Will you stay? Surely you miss your home.”

“No.” She didn’t attempt to specify which question she was answering. 

“Are you returning to Braavos then?” she guessed. 

It was quiet for a time until she answered. “I’ll be back when I’m ready to finish what we’ve begun.”

A weathered hand settled over hers on the table. “Arya, I understand your pain, I do, but there is more to life than revenge, trust me.” She slipped her hand out from under Olenna’s carefully so not to injure her. “Your parents would want more for you than that.”

Arya didn’t want to hear it. She thought it hypocritical that Olenna was preaching the values of peace now that her problem was solved. She also had little interest in hearing someone speak of her parent’s desires. They were dead, they didn’t want anything. “You may be finished, but I’m just getting started.”

“Do you have more in your life than your hate?”

She thought about the answer. She didn’t. Her work for the Many Faced God occupied some of her time, but even that was a means to an end. Her training was so she could cross every name from her list. The people she gave the Gift to along the way were merely practice. Jaqen was her only real friend and even he, she was certain would cut her throat without hesitation if the Kindly Man ordered it done. “I have enough hate to go around,” she admitted after a long wait. 

“And that’s enough?” Olenna pushed. The gentle way she spoke, the clear concern reminded Arya of the books she read as a girl, the kind with the doting grandmother, fretting over those younger. 

“It is today,” she assured her. 

“And what about tomorrow?” Olenna wondered. 

Arya woke from her dream, from her memory with a jolt. The closer she got to her destination the more often she thought of Olenna. The King Slayer had been added to her very short list once she learned that it was he who’d given Lady Tyrell the poison that killed her. Even knowing Highgarden had little value without its gold or grain she still considered going to reclaim it. Olenna would have hated having her home fall in Cersei’s hands but others needed her more. Olenna was dead and she would be avenged, Arya would see to that, but there was a chance some still lived. Yara had been saved, Ellaria Sand remained captive. 

Every step she took closer to King’s Landing tightened the knot in her stomach. Rest was harder and harder to come by, while events from the past, long dealt with reared up for a fight. She wanted to kill Cersei more than anyone else but knew now was not the time. If she wanted to save Lady Sand, she couldn’t have every Gold Cloak in the Red Keep hunting her. It would be challenging enough to sneak the prisoner out from under the noses, she couldn’t complicate things further by being reckless. Before she met her God, she’d spit on Cersei’s corpse but not until everything was ready. 

There were no shortage of dangers sneaking into the Red Keep, but the rewards were plentiful. Arya wasn’t opposed to risk. The Dornish army mourned their lost Queen and three of their Princesses. Their hate for the South and for Cersei Lannister in particular ran deep, dating back far longer than the most recent transgressions. Daenerys had tried to capitalize on that to strengthen her armies and she’d found a willing co-conspirator in Ellaria. 

After learning of the captures, Arya expected controlling the surviving Sand Snakes would be difficult if not impossible, but she’d misjudged. Oh, they wanted blood on their spears undoubtedly but with the strongest most powerful of Oberyn’s daughters dead or in chains the remaining few were paralyzed by indecision. Not even promises of revenge from the Dragon Queen could set them marching. They chose to wait, sending negotiators to King’s Landing in a fruitless effort to save those they loved. 

That was why Arya was willing to risk her neck going to the place she hated. If she, and by extension Daenerys could return Ellaria or Tyene to Sunspear, they’d earn favor in Dorne and definitely another capable and motivated army for the wars. 

R-C

After their talk about Arya, Jon and Daenerys fell into an easy pattern. Discussing her between them was rare, but not non-existent. If Daenerys wanted to speak of her past with Arya, to relive it, she went to Missandei who was a faithful friend, always available to listen. Jon did however tell her the story of how he’d had a sword crafted specifically for Arya, before he left for the Wall. “I just wanted her to have something to remember me,” he’d said. Having heard the tale from Arya’s side, she knew the gift meant more to her than just a remembrance. To Arya, having a sword of her own was a confirmation of who she wanted to be, permission from the brother she adored to be who she was and not what the world told her she needed to be. Talk of Arya brought both happiness and hurt, usually in equal portions. 

Arya was never far from her thoughts and Daenerys’s worry was almost permanent, but she knew Arya capable and trusted her to survive. In the weeks after Arya’s letter, confirming that she wouldn’t be returning, Daenerys found it easier to accept Jon’s affections. It was more duty and obligation than want but she was committed to their plan. In the process Jon came to accept things as they were, never making her feel guilty for her lack of love for him. 

Over time their arrangement became normal and Daenerys could separate her feelings for Jon from her love for Arya without diminishing either. She enjoyed the time she spent with Jon, she liked his generous spirit, his unshakable goodness and his dedication to the things he felt were right. Everything was happening for them in the wrong order. They started as lovers, then married and now were slowly becoming friends. 

After several more attempts Sam, Jon’s friend and Maester confirmed for them again that she still wasn’t pregnant. Daenerys was furious. She wanted to summon Bran, to confirm it was still a part of her future to have a child, but he remained on the Wall, beyond her reach. With no other option she ordered Melisandre brought before her to answer for the lack of progress. 

“Stay calm,” Jon cautioned as she paced waiting for Jorah to deliver the Priestess. 

“Calm? Calm!?” she shouted, “We’ve been married for months. She promised us a child and she’s going to explain herself. If she lied, I’ll take her head myself.”

“That won’t be necessary, my Queen,” Melisandre said from the doorway, a step ahead of Jorah. 

This was a conversation that needed to happen in private. She’d already dismissed the Unsullied and Dothraki from the room and now she sent Jorah away. “Thank you, Ser. Can you please find Tyrion and ensure everything is going well with the fleet?”

“Of course, Khaleesi.”

Any softness that formed in her posture or words while addressing the knight vanished when the door closed, leaving she and Jon were alone with Melisandre. “You promised us a child!” Daenerys reminded her. “Said your Lord of Light would grant us one if we united our families!” Her lips curled in a sneer as she mentioned the supposed ‘Lord’. She was beginning to have her doubts about His accuracy. 

“Dany, relax,” Jon urged. 

“I did,” Melisandre confirmed. “The Lord of Light gave me signs you’d bare a child, his child,” she said turning to Jon. “Your brother confirmed it.”

“Has anything changed?” Jon asked calmly before she could yell again. 

“Yes,” she said, a single word was like a sword through Daenerys’s heart. “She has.”

Two sets of eyes settled on her. “Me?” she verified, getting a nod in reply. She was suddenly too hurt to maintain her anger. It was her fault, just as it had been when she lost her son. All the fury deflated out of her and she grew dizzy. She wouldn’t be having a child after all. Her chest felt like it was being flayed. 

“Is it the Witch?” Jon asked. “Is it the magic she used?”

The silence seemed like an eternity to her. “No, your combined bloods, fire and ice will combat the dark magic that tainted her womb.”

Daenerys didn’t understand. What was she saying? “So, what’s the problem?”

Melisandre looked to the Queen and then Jon. “She isn’t trying.”

Her anger was back in full force. “We are trying damn it!” she screamed, taking a large step toward the red- haired woman. Who did she think she was? Not trying? She left the woman she loved and married another all because of her alleged prophecy. “Don’t you dare say we aren’t trying. Maybe your Lord of Light is full of shit!”

“Dany,” Jon tried. 

“It’s all right,” the Priestess said, unbothered by Daenerys’s outburst. “Your body may be trying,” she said looking at the Queen as if she saw through her, “but you are not!”

Even Jon had reached his limit. “Enough with your riddles. Get to the point.”

She addressed Jon as though Daenerys had vanished. “Your wife’s body may be in your bed, but her heart and mind are elsewhere. Too much distance exists between them for a child to be conceived. 

Calm was a request she couldn’t honor. Was this bitch serious? “You’re telling me your precious Lord won’t give us a baby because I don’t love Jon?” she roared. Upon hearing her words in the air, she added, as an afterthought, “Enough!” Yes, she decided, that was better. It was because she didn’t love Jon enough, not because she didn’t love him at all.

Guilt melded with her rage and she couldn’t keep her eyes off her husband. He was doing a much better job of not looking at her and she knew she’d need to apologize to him later. He didn’t deserve that. They’d decided together. It wasn’t right to punish him for not being Arya. He’d been far more understanding than most in his situation would be. 

“Bring the girl home,” Melisandre directed.

Arya! Somehow, she knew about Arya. The married couple shared a look and Daenerys didn’t need a mirror to know the pain that was carved across her face. Jon, being the man he was, hurried to her defense. “Be very careful,” he warned his former friend. “Choose your next words wisely or I swear I’ll fulfill the promise I made the day I banished you from the North.”

The reply came after a dark, humorless laugh. “Worry not Jon Snow, my death approaches quickly, but not yet.” No one spoke for a time and although there was so much she wanted to say, to ask, to scream, to curse, no words came. “Close the void between your heart and your body and the Lord of Light will give you what you seek.”

Without being dismissed or escorted out, she turned and went. When Daenerys collapsed Jon caught her and they stayed like that late into the night. 

R-C

The following days brought clarity and more pain. Daenerys had been so focused on what Melisandre said that she hadn’t thought much about the implications. With the aid of distance, she could see it was a trap no matter which way she turned. If she wanted a baby, she needed to convince Arya to return but if she did, she’d be forcing the woman she loved to come back and witness she and Jon together. She wanted Arya back with her, not only for the sake of her perspective child, also because she missed her, but she couldn’t be selfish this time. She’d put Arya through enough. 

She assumed Jon would side with her, but to her surprise, only a week after Melisandre’s summons Jon told her he intended to go and find Arya. In a rush, all the anger she felt because of their circumstance was aimed at him. “You can’t mean that!” she yelled when she understood what he planned to do.

“You heard what she said,” Jon justified as he strapped his sword to his hip. “No matter how hard we try, it won’t work until we bring her back.”

“We don’t even know where she is,” Daenerys contested, choosing that instead of the more serious reason for not going. 

“King’s Landing,” Jon said, as his face heated with color. 

“What?!” Daenerys shrieked. How did he know that? Why hadn’t he told her? “What the fuck is she doing there?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted, “Bran’s letter just said that’s where she was.” 

Dread filled every inch of her. “We have to stop her. She’s going to try and kill Cersei, to end the war…”

“I don’t think so,” Jon said, forgetting his preparations. He went to her and pulled her into a hug. “I’ll go get her, I promise.” 

Daenerys resisted the comfort, pushing hard against his chest. “Why else would she go there? She hates it there.”

If she’d been thinking clearly, she might have known the answer as Jon did, but her anger clouded everything, her worry doubly so. “Her first act upon leaving was to go and rescue the Greyjoy. I think she’s going to try and save Ellaria next.”

“That’s madness!” she yelled. “Varys says she’s in the Red Keep’s dungeon. Not even Arya can sneak in there. She’ll be killed!” 

“She won’t be,” Jon said, setting a kiss on the top of her head. “She won’t be because I’m going to go and get her and bring her back here.” 

Daenerys hadn’t changed her mind. It was wrong to ask more of Arya than they already had. They asked her to accept the marriage, then Daenerys self-centeredly asked her to stay. Arya didn’t need the added burden of being responsible for the creation of their heir as well. She was in agreement Jon should go get her, to keep her safe, but that’s where the concession ended. “Go then,” she said, stepping back out of his embrace, “but we can’t ask her to come back. Get her out of King’s Landing and then let her go.”

Her eyes closed, and she said a silent prayer that Arya would remain safe until Jon could locate her. When she looked again, her husband was angrier than she’d ever seen him. “What was it all for then?” he demanded to know. When they answer didn’t come, he kept going. “Why have we done this, the alliance, the wedding, all of it?” 

“For the good of our people,” she answered without pause, repeating the justification she’d been telling herself for months. 

“Our people need an heir!”

She wringed her hands together. “We can’t do it!” she said with certainty. “It’s too much. She’s your sister. We can’t ask her to come here and watch us together, that’s cruel and wrong.”

“Do you not wish her return?” he asked, his voice lowering while maintaining its edge. 

“Of course, I do,” Daenerys yelled with no such restraint. “I miss her every day, just like you but it’s not fair to place this on her shoulders.” Daenerys felt exhausted. She shouldn’t have to explain this to him. He should understand. He should agree. 

“Do you want a child?”

Her grip on her hands tightened. “You know I do, but at what cost?” 

“And you know Arya would come back if she knew,” Jon commented, hitting her with a blow they both knew she couldn’t deflect. She was powerless because it was true. 

“That’s because she’s selfless and good, no matter how she sees herself.” She was growing frustrated with her inability to sway him. “She’s your sister! How can you suggest we do this to her?!”

“It’s for the good of our people,” he declared, using her own words against her. 

“The price is too high! We’ll find another way to choose an heir. It doesn’t have to be like this.” 

Just when she thought she was getting through to him she realized how wrong she was. “Would you have married me if Melisandre and Bran hadn’t said we’d have a child?” 

“Perhaps,” she said softening the truth slightly. “it has strengthened both of our kingdoms and added stability when it was badly needed.”

“We’ve come this far Daenerys,” he said finally relaxing. “The damage is done. Now we just need to see it through.” 

Words failed her. He had a point, but that didn’t make it right. Arya’s suffering was not something Daenerys would ever take lightly. Watching him prepare to leave she understood that for the first time since they were wed, he wasn’t asking her opinion, he wasn’t open to convincing, he’d made up his mind and he was going. 

“Be careful,” she said when she realized any other attempts would fail. “You’re not Cersei’s favorite person either. 

He went to her for another hug and before she knew it was happening, they were kissing. It wasn’t passionate or even romantic but when his lips met hers she kissed back, to tell him all the things she couldn’t find words for, to apologize for her unreasonable anger and to show him they were going to be okay. “I’ll be back soon.” 

Her thoughts were scattered, so much so that she almost didn’t comprehend the implications when she heard her husband speaking from the hall. “She’s all yours Tyrion.”

R-C

Her two weeks in King’s Landing had felt more like a year. In that time, she’d purchased information, listened in shadow, lied, and stole. She created and dismissed no fewer than five strategies for safely extracting the Sand woman and was growing increasingly annoyed with her lack of output. 

It would have been simple enough to kill and take a new face, but it wasn’t necessary. She’d been gone from this pit a long time and few remained who would remember that Arya Stark once lived in the Hand’s Tower. Fewer still would recognize that girl if they came across the woman she’d become. 

Gaining entry to the Red Keep wasn’t as hard as she expected it to be. Despite Daenerys’s nearby presence, King’s Landing was largely unaffected. Arya noticed more guards, a lot more, more soldiers, more towers and more patrols. The smiths on the Street of Steel seemed to be working non-stop in preparation for the coming war. As she passed Gendry’s former forge she thought of her lost friend. No, getting in was easy, getting out would be the challenge. 

In a tavern late one night she heard a drunk telling the man at the next table he’d come from the Westerlands, bringing goods especially for the Queen. He was a bald man with a fringe of white hair just above his ears. He had to have at least fifty summers behind him and had deep blue eyes that reminded her of cheap imitations of the White Walkers Jon talked about. Arya sensed her opening and approached. After a round of drinks were enjoyed in silence she made her move. “You’re going to the keep? You’re so lucky. I’ve always wanted to see the inside.”

“It’s beautiful,” the merchant said, “gold everywhere the eye can see. Gold lions in the hall, gold forks for the Queen to eat, golden coal buckets in the royal chambers.” 

Unless a lot had changed, she knew he was exaggerating, but played her part well. “By the Gods I’d love to see that. Will you tell me about it Ser?” she asked him. “I’ll gladly buy you another drink if you’ll tell me what it’s like.” 

The old man laughed and waved over a server. “What’s your name girl?” 

“Lanna,” she said, calling on a former identity she used. 

“Bren,” he said to the waitress. “This is my new friend Lanna and we’d like a couple of drinks.” As the dark- haired woman went to fetch the order his blue eyes never left her ass. “Pleasure to meet ya, Lanna, I’m Myran.”

“Pleasure’s mine Ser.”

“So, you wish to know about the Red Keep eh?”

“Oh yes,” she said, sounding eager and naive, “more than anything.” 

R-C

She worked hard to contain her emotions before she turned to face him. “Is there something you need?”

“Just bringing news,” Tyrion said. 

“Let’s have it,” she said, waving him in. Truthfully, the distraction would probably be good for her, but she knew Tyrion and knew she wasn’t going to get off that easy. 

“Word from Pyke,” he said, holding out the scroll. When she didn’t take it, he side stepped her to place it on the table. “Apparently the Iron Islands are secure enough for Yara to travel. She’s coming here with more troops to help us prepare for our wars.” 

Looking down into his eyes she could see the questions he was dying to ask, but she wasn’t in the mood. “Anything else?” she asked, keeping the focus on royal business only. 

She knew they were venturing into the personal when his demeanor changed. “About what I overheard…”

She reached up and wiped sweat from her brow, closing her eyes against the rapidly approaching headache. “Not now Tyrion, please,” she begged. 

“Of course, it’s just that… well, I didn’t know.” There was a pause and she knew that despite his words he wasn’t willing to postpone whatever was on his mind. “I wouldn’t have…”

“Yes, you would’ve,” she said harder than she meant to. She worked to lighten her tone. “You would’ve,” she tried again, “because that’s your job, to look out for our people.”

“You could have told me.” She knew his issue was with her choice to keep it hidden rather than any feelings she had for Arya. She’d always known he would learn the secret eventually. It was inevitable. “It’d have made things easier to understand.”

Her headache arrived. “What would you have me say exactly?” she asked him. “No, I can’t marry Jon because I am in love with his sister?” Things were getting out of hand, but she couldn’t stop. He wanted to talk, so they were going to. “Should I have told you I hadn’t been with Jon for months by the time you pressed the issue of marriage, that from the moment I met Arya I was hers and hers alone?”

He went to the wine cart and poured them each a drink. “I’m sorry Daenerys,” he said sincerely. “If I’d known…”

She took the drink and emptied it before bothering to reply. “You’d have told me to marry Jon and keep Arya secret,” she predicted. 

“Why didn’t you?” he wondered, his curiosity evident. 

“You clearly don’t know Arya.”

He shook his head and took a slow sip. “She terrifies me. I’m certain she has plans for how to murder me and dispose of my body.”

She gave her Hand a grim smile. She couldn’t refute that. “Arya Stark is not the kind of woman to tolerate such an arrangement,” Daenerys explained, leaving out the part where she’d asked Arya to do just that. 

“And now?” Tyrion prompted. “Your marriage to Jon?”

She went to the cart to refill her glass, bringing the bottle back to save time. “Our marriage is not unlike yours to Sansa I suspect.”

The mention of his former wife had Tyrion nearly choking. “I never intended to have a child with Sansa,” he corrected, after a cough. 

“I suppose it is not the same then.” More drinks would be needed if they were going to continue this conversation. “You were with others, while sworn to Sansa, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he stated firmly, but Daenerys could see there was more to the story, much more. 

“Did you love her, the woman you were with before you were told to marry?”

“Yes,” he said again, a mimic of his last reply. The troubled look on his face became even more severe. 

“Did she forgive you?” Daenerys couldn’t help but ask, “for what you had to do.”

Tyrion’s hand shook as he poured himself a fresh glass and then emptied it in a single gulp. “That was different.”

Any hope Daenerys had managed to delude herself into forming vanished at the obvious denial. “She’ll never forgive me,” Daenerys complained. “I told her I loved her and then I married her brother. Now she has to return so we can conceive an heir.”

By his expression, it was clear Tyrion hadn’t overheard that part of her conversation with Jon. “What?” 

She shook her head. She really didn’t want to have to try and explain it. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters, is she’ll hate me.” 

“It’s difficult to hate someone you love,” he said wisely. “No matter how truly they deserve it.” 

R-C

It took several rounds of drinks and the promise of more in the future but Myran agreed to allow Lanna to accompany his small group of traders to the Red Keep. In exchange for granting her access, she promised to help him carry in his goods, do all the hard work and obey his every order. These were promises she wouldn’t honor, but he didn’t need to know that. Once she was inside, it would be relatively easy to slip away and learn where Ellaria was being kept. 

She purposely wore her hair down, over her ears and as much of her face as possible, just in case. She didn’t trust the guards would let her past without a search, so she left her weapons behind to be retrieved later. If she needed a blade while inside, she’d have to borrow one. 

She was an hour early for their agreed upon meeting, but Arya was too afraid he’d go without her to tempt fate. While she waited she sat on the ground, with her legs folded under her. She went back in time. It was an early morning not unlike this, just days after she’d caught Daenerys unable to sleep. They hadn’t spoken since. This time it was Daenerys who found her. 

Five Months Before the Wedding:

“Something on your mind?” she asked as she took the same spot at the table she’d used before. Arya had chosen it this time because she hoped Daenerys might be back. She wasn’t disappointed. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Arya insisted. From their earlier exchange she knew Daenerys was having troubles of her own. The last thing she wanted to do was add to them. 

“Tell me anyway.” 

Arya couldn’t hold back her smirk. She was coming to understand that the Dragon was particularly unmovable, despite her small size. Once she set her mind to something it was as if it were etched in stone. If she wanted to know, Arya might as well tell her, she’d save herself both time and aggravation. “Thinking of a friend,” she admitted. 

Before Daenerys appeared, she’d been thinking about Olenna, specifically how unfair it was that she hadn’t lived to see their mission through. As a girl she’d been forced to learn about all the Houses of Westeros and that included the Tyrells. Arya hadn’t thought them particularly powerful, then. Wealthy sure, intelligent but not strong. Their army lacked the impressive qualities of a Lannister or Baratheon and their history was empty of the infamous heroes she treasured, like Nymeria who settled Dorne. With age came wisdom and Arya realized there was more than one type of strength. Just as a direct attack wasn’t the only way to kill your enemy, a powerful army wasn’t the only way to hold power. Lady Olenna was the embodiment of this lesson. 

After her admission, Daenerys seemed to misunderstand what wasn’t being said. “Arya Stark,” she teased lightly, “are you smitten? Is there a boy out there somewhere awaiting your return?”

Was she smitten, perhaps, but she wasn’t willing to confess that yet, not even to herself. “Not that kind of friend, your Grace.”

“It’s Daenerys, remember?”

“I do,” she promised. 

“So, who were you thinking of it not a love?” Daenerys poked. “Friends from Braavos perhaps or a girlfriend maybe?” 

She’d been looking at the table, tracing the grains in the wood with her eyes but at the mention of a possible female lover Arya’s head snapped up and she found Daenerys watching her closely, enjoying her discomfort. Arya was out of practice with jokes. As a child, she could rival Theon or Bran, but the years made laughter a luxury she couldn’t afford. Now that she was home again, she was struggling to get back to who she’d been, even partially. 

Sitting there, staring at the other woman she felt her own face shifting to match Daenerys’s. The Queen really did have a beautiful smile. She could see why the line of men infatuated with her seemed to grow longer by the day. Jon, the Mormont, even Tyrion seemed unable to refuse her. The staff of Winterfell, male and female alike were only too eager to do her bidding. Lords, notorious in their opposition to any form of Southern occupation softened their stances after only a few minutes in the Dragon Queen’s company. 

“I was thinking of a friend who died recently,” she said. “She was a friend of yours as well, as I hear it.”

At this revelation Daenerys’s eyebrow lifted. “Is that so? I believe all the friends we share are here.”

“The surviving one’s are.”

“Who do you mean?” she wondered. 

“Lady Olenna.” 

The flicker of emotions was fast, so fast she almost missed them. First there was recognition, then something akin to happiness and finally sadness. The pain remained, and Arya knew that it was true what she heard. Daenerys really did care for her allies. They weren’t tools to be manipulated for her purposes. They were people and friends. “You knew Lady Tyrell?”

“I did.” It wasn’t an accident she stopped then. She wasn’t quite sure how much of the past she was ready to share with Daenerys, or how much Daenerys might want to hear. 

“Did you meet her in King’s Landing when you were a girl?” she asked, answering at least half of Arya’s doubts. 

“No,” she said, deciding to tell the truth. Daenerys had been open with her, about her past and her hopes for the future. The least Arya could do was try and do the same. Like humor, truth was something that no longer came easy, but she found herself willing to try. “I didn’t meet Olenna until after.”

“After?” Daenerys verified. “You told me last time we spoke you were in Braavos after your father was killed.” 

“I was, that’s where Lady Olenna found me.” She nearly left it at that but decided to give a little more. “The Many Faced God has needs beyond Braavos. I trained there, but I travelled as well.” 

She expected condemnation when Daenerys realized she meant her work as an assassin. Typically, Ladies frowned upon that as an occupational choice, but Daenerys showed only a flicker of surprise and absolutely no judgement or critic. 

“So how did you come to know Olenna?”

They had reached a crossroads. Arya could lie or tell the truth. If she told the truth, she’d be telling Daenerys something no other living soul knew. The secret of her participation in the murder of a King died with Olenna. No one would ever have to know, unless Arya decided to reveal it. It was a shockingly easy choice to make. “I provided the poison she used to murder King Joffrey.”

R-C

“Eager huh?” Myran laughed when he saw her there. Along with his cart of goods, there were three others, two men and a woman. Introductions were made all around. “I understand. I couldn’t wait to get inside my first time. Ready then?” She got up and dusted off her pants before she joined in with the others helping organize the cart. 

“Absolutely,” she said, meaning it. The sooner she could leave this place, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Thanks to the people who have stuck around. Next up Arya attempts another rescue and we’ve got a flashback from just before the wedding.


	7. Chapter 7

“The middle,” Jaqen taught her once, during one of her earliest days in Braavos. “Fools always hide in the back, but even the dullest guard is trained to look for dangers in the rear. Those at the front suffer the most scrutiny and so, the middle. When you wish to hide, place yourself in the heart of the formation, keep your eyes down and appear busy, a girl will be overlooked.”

She was testing his lesson now as she shuffled her way down the corridors of the Red Keep. They’d been searched for weapons and were now surrounded by no fewer than ten armed men on their way to the Iron Throne. A smaller version of Myran’s cart was being pushed by two men in their party, Arya and her female cohort walked on either side. While the woman’s eyes were wide with awe, Arya kept her focus on the stone in front of her dragged feet and nothing else. 

A voice from her nightmares reached her ears, passing through the open doors freely. “What do you mean he’s dead!” she yelled. 

“T…that’s what they say, your Grace,” a man muttered.   
Arya could practically smell the piss staining the front of his trousers as he shook under Cersei’s harsh words. “It’s said,” he paused, likely to swallow his terror, “said the captured Greyjoy got free and killed him with his own sword.” 

While that wasn’t exactly true it did have a nice ring to it. Arya knew a story didn’t need to be accurate to be useful and the more compelling a tale sounded, the better it had a tendency to work. She for one, certainly wasn’t going to correct the errors. “I knew it,” the calmer of the two Lannisters said. “I knew we couldn’t trust Euron, he killed his own brother and was more interested in…”

Cersei didn’t let him finish. “What of the Iron Fleet?” she asked her informer. “Euron was to send them to Essos for mercenaries.”

The delay told Arya the man, whoever he was, didn’t want to answer. She didn’t need her eyes to picture Cersei’s glare and it provoked the desired response. “S…some remain, your Grace,” he said starting with the good news. “Many more returned to the Iron Islands upon hearing of Euron’s death!”

“Cowards!” she cried. There was silence for a time, both around the Iron Throne and in the hallway. “Fine, we don’t need them,” she decided. “Go to Essos yourself,” she commanded someone, likely Jaime. “Meet up with the Ironborn and finish what they started. Hire us the Gold Company and as many boats as we require to ferry them back here.”

“I’m to lead the army North next week,” he reminded her, his usually smooth voice sounding confused. “Our bargain with the Targaryen…”

“Fuck the Targaryen!” Cersei spat, causing the blood in Arya to boil. She wanted to forgo her plan, rush in and kill her where she sat, even if the price was her life. She’d never survive such an attack but as she insulted Daenerys that mattered little. 

Without the training of the House of Black and White she wouldn’t have been able to refrain. If she’d been the furious girl who watched her father beheaded, the same one who struggled to reach Joffrey that day to end his life, she’d have sentenced Ellaria to death and taken her chances against the Lannisters. She was smarter now, or at least she liked to think so. She’d wait for the right moment to strike, as she’d been taught, but she also made another decision. If she failed, if her plan to rescue Lady Sand resulted in discovery, and escape became impossible, she’d fight her way back to Cersei and stick a sword through her skull before she was defeated. The thought made her smile. 

“Wait here,” a guard said when they arrived at the door where four Gold Cloaks waited. Most of their escort peeled away, going back to their duties, leaving Arya a total of six sets of watchful eyes to contend with. 

“Do you know how long it’ll be,” Myran asked one of them, not unkindly. 

“The Queen will be ready for you when she’s ready!” 

“The armies are ready, you ordered them so!” Jaime said. 

“I did, and they will fight, but not the fucking White Walkers.”

The male was very obviously growing exasperated. “She wed Ned Stark’s bastard. Together they command the largest army in the Realm.”

“They do and soon enough they will be moving North, her, her savages, her slaves and her dragons will all go to help her ‘husband’ fight the White Walkers. What do you suppose that means for us?” The way she sneered at the mention of Jon told Arya her hate ran deep. 

As she listened to her enemies, Arya was struck by how foolish they were behaving. Talking of such things within earshot of guards and travelling merchants was a mistake, one Cersei would pay for eventually. She’d become complacent, so used to the fear she invoked, the obedience she demanded that she had stopped believing it was even possible that any in King’s Landing might oppose her. It was an error that would lead to her death eventually, if not today then soon. 

For more than a minute Arya could hear speaking, but not make out the words. Both siblings seemed to realize their volume and correct it. It didn’t remain that way. “I gave an oath,” Jaime protested. 

“What are you, a Stark? Your only true oath is to me!” 

Now, Arya thought. Doing her best to appear ill, she wobbled, and hunched, folding one arm across her stomach as though she were trying to hold herself together. “Help,” she croaked pathetically. “I think…” She forced a cough and then another. “I’m going to be sick.” She pushed the words out in a rush, like she was afraid her illness might capture her before she finished. 

Two of the guards came toward her, while the others remained unconcerned. “What’s that girl?” one asked, already hostile. 

“I’m going to be sick,” she said again. 

Myran rushed to her side. “Lanna, are you alright dear?”

“Sick,” was her only reply. 

“If you puke on the floor, you’ll lick it up and spend a month in the dungeons!” he threatened. 

At her side, Myran put a fatherly hand on her back and tried to soothe her. When he spoke, she could hear his worry, not only for her but himself as he frantically tried not to upset things. Being a merchant allowed entry into the Red Keep was a rare honor. King’s Landing as a whole rarely turned away goods, needing all it could get, but the court held higher standards. Myran knew if he was thrown out, he’d likely never get inside again, losing his market for his highest quality, most expensive wares. “A chamber pot,” he said, rubbing circles on her back. “Do you have a chamber pot?” 

No words, only a pointing hand. Myran summoned the other girl over and instructed her to help Arya. She did, putting one of Arya’s scarred arms around her neck and settling a hand on her hip to steady her. They must have been a non-threatening duo because only one guard joined them. 

Behind the closed door, Arya pulled away from her assistant. The guard remained outside. “Water,” she said in a weak whisper, feeling guilty for what was about to happen. When the girl turned to fetch some from the bucket Arya stood tall and wrapped an arm around her neck. Killing her would have been easy enough, nothing more than a quick twist required, but it would have been pointless. Arya had planned for this. She wasn’t a novice on her first job. She not only knew exactly where she was, she knew where she needed to go, and she had no fewer than three routes mapped out in her mind.

The window was exactly where she remembered it. Hours spent wandering the Red Keep, searching for something to occupy her active mind gave her knowledge of even the most insignificant spaces. Maybe if her father hadn’t worked so hard as Robert’s Hand, or if Sansa hadn’t avoided her like she had Greyscale she might not know what she needed to now. 

She’d dressed in layers, a long tunic and pants, not uncommon for traders or merchants, finer than some, cheaper than others. She peeled it off quickly, knowing she’d need to be fast. Underneath was a painfully constricting brown dress, the kind a servant in the Red Keep might wear. 

The window took more effort than she anticipated. Several curses in multiple languages left her lips as she struggled her way through. Either the window had gotten smaller in her absence or Arya was larger than she realized. On the outside she felt the dangerously narrow ledge and worked her way along to the next room, the next window. A storage room if she remembered right, and she had. After dusting off some dirt from her dress she picked up a carton at random and walked out like she belonged. 

While she wouldn’t be allowed entry to the dungeons, no matter how authentic she looked, she trusted that was the best place to learn information about prisoners. Her first step involved learning if Ellaria was still alive and where she was being held. Far away from Cersei and the court guards had a habit of spilling more secrets, with little fear of being caught. 

At the top of the staircase leading down Arya said a quick prayer. “Let me hide in the shadows and hear hidden truths. May I see my enemy long before he sees me.” 

The delay for a talk with her God proved to be most beneficial. With her blocking the way, another woman, older than her, but only slightly made her way down. “Excuse me,” she said politely. 

Arya sidestepped as requested but then held out an arm to block her. “Where are you going?” she whispered, noticing the woman carried only a single, unlit torch. When she’d lived in King’s Landing anything having to do with prisoners was handled by a specially trained group of guards. No servant was ever allowed near the cells. Was it different now? 

Blue eyes darted around as though there might be a spy among them. She didn’t realize how right she was. “You haven’t heard?”

“I’m new,” Arya explained. 

“The Queen is torturing the Sand woman, the one from Dorne,” she admitted, sounding horrified. “Poisoned her daughter with a kiss and then left them chained on opposite sides of the room.”

“Why?” she asked, already aware of the answer. 

“So, she’d have no choice but to watch her daughter die and wither.”

When the woman shuddered at the thought, Arya tried to mirror her response, to appear just as disgusted. “Why have you come then?”

“Punishment,” she said, with her eyes on her feet. The embarrassment was radiating off her. “The Queen asked me to get her something and I took too long.”

“So?” 

“She’s forcing me to come down here and change the torches in Lady Sand’s cell, to show me what happens to those who anger her.” Arya intended to speak but didn’t get the chance. “I hate it. She’s gone mad, the room stinks of death and the Lady does little more than wail.” 

“Will she recover?” Arya wondered. If Ellaria was insane, she would be of little use to anyone, including Daenerys. 

“Upstairs,” she said looking behind her, “I heard a Maester say she was too far gone. He said they should kill her, but the Queen won’t allow it.”

“That’s terrible,” Arya whispered, not having to embellish this time. 

She nodded in agreement. “She won’t eat, so the guards force the food and drink down her throat. She doesn’t even have a chamber pot to change, she just goes on herself.”

“Do you know where the Hand’s Tower is?” Arya asked. 

“The Hand’s Tower?” she repeated back. “You’re in the wrong place, nothing down here but cells and storage.”

“This place is so big,” she whined, feigning panic. “Every time I turn a corner I’m lost.” 

The hand not holding the torch touched her shoulder. “It was that way for me at the beginning too. It will get better.”

Thinking their exchange over she took another step down the staircase and Arya followed. “Wait,” she hurried to say before she got too far. “Thank you for your kindness, I don’t even know your name.”

“Mia,” she said, smiling for the first time. 

“Thank you, Mia. As payment, would you like me to change the torch for you this time.”

Her unexpected offer took long seconds, time Arya didn’t have. If the Gold Cloaks hadn’t discovered the unconscious woman yet they soon would. “I…I can’t… if the Queen found out…”

“I’ll take the secret to my grave,” Arya promised. She held out the carton she was carrying, “I was to take this to the Hand’s Tower.”

The exchange made, Mia thanked her twice before turning and going back the way she’d come. “Find me in the servant’s quarters,” her new friend said. “I’ll introduce you to the others and teach you how not to be lost.”

“I’ll see you there when I’m through,” she lied. 

R-C

With Jon and Arya away, Daenerys felt more anxious. Every second felt longer. Not even the tasks of war preparation and governing could fill the entire day. 

That’s how she came to be in her room, looking for something, anything to distract her. She had a shelf of books she hadn’t read but dismissed the idea quickly. Without meaning to she surveyed the room and noticed a variety of coins littering the surfaces or resting in purses in the event they were needed; gold, silver, bronze, iron, copper and all manner of precious jewels. A family of five could live for a year on what she had laying around her chambers. But the only thing that held her eye for more than the briefest was a single iron coin, unimpressive by comparison, yet priceless to her. 

She went to it, sitting on the corner of a table next to her bed. She’d given the staff strict instructions never to take or move the coin and they hadn’t. Picking it up she felt the familiar weight. Positioning it on the nail of her thumb she flicked it into the air and attempted to catch it, as she’d seen done only to miss and send the coin skipping along the floor. 

She didn’t look very royal, crawling after it. She recaptured it just as the door swung open. “Your Grace,” Missandei fretted, carrying in a bundle of freshly cleaned clothes for her ruler. “Are you alright? Did you fall? I can summon the Maester.”

“I’m fine, I just dropped something.” She held out the coin as proof she hadn’t merely collapsed. 

“What is it?” She went to the table and set down the clothes before she hurried to give Daenerys aid. 

“A gift,” she replied with a smile. She stood, and a dark hand wiped the dirt away from her silk dress. 

“From Arya,” the advisor guessed correctly. 

“How did you know?”

“Only one person can make you smile so,” she revealed. “It could be from no other.”

Missandei was widely acknowledged as one of the smartest in her service and still Daenerys got the distinct impression what they saw was only scratching the surface of what the former slave, saw, noticed, understood and held onto for later. 

The clothes she brought forgotten they sat on the bed side by side. “Tell me when she gave you this,” Missandei said as she looked at the coin for the first time. 

R-C

One Week Before the Wedding

Things were difficult. She’d agreed to marry Jon and as the wedding neared, Arya withdrew. In the last week, she had been more difficult to wrangle than one of the wild direwolves her family was famous for. Her last two attempts to steal time away for them had been thwarted. Once by Jon, and the other by Tyrion. This time she wouldn’t be denied. If wars begun, if deaths occurred, if flames poured from the sky like rain it would all have to wait. 

It took her longer than usual to track down the other woman and that was saying something. Daenerys checked all their favorite spots, the private places they would flee to, to be alone, and each time nothing. With few places left to look she headed toward the crypt, wondering if Arya was paying her respects to her ancestors. She still hadn’t set foot inside herself, but for Arya she would. 

She didn’t get that far. With the crypt in sight, she was distracted by a low, grunt of effort that sounded incredibly familiar. She turned and chased it. Her trip took her to a rarely used corner of Winterfell, a tight passage between two buildings, almost entirely hidden from view. It was a space Daenerys had never seen before, one she hadn’t even realized was there. It’s where Arya stood in a thin shirt and pants, oblivious to the cold. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing her scars and in her hand, an axe. Daenerys didn’t move, she just watched. While she did Arya took another length of wood and set it on the chopping block. As soon as it was settled, she gripped the axe with both hands and raised it high over her head. It came down with more force than she expected, and Daenerys heard another of those grunts. Such sounds were commonplace when Arya and she were naked in each other’s arms and it reminded her just how badly she’d missed the other woman. The two halves of the wood split, jumping in opposite directions. Daenerys stood mesmerized. She tried to detail everything, from the way the muscles in her back flexed as she raised the axe, to how her legs twitched as the head came to a stop in the stump. Her power was deceptive, Daenerys knew that better than anyone. The first time Arya took her, she’d been overcome by the force. Her arms were only slightly larger than Sana’s dainty ones and still they couldn’t be more different. Every inch of Arya’s body was lined with tightly coiled, taut muscles eager for work. 

“Enjoying the show?” Arya asked as she readied another piece of wood. 

Daenerys looked around and found they were alone. Arya was definitely speaking to her. How could she have possibly known? Daenerys hadn’t said a thing, hadn’t moved an inch, too captivated to dare breathe. “How…”

Her lover’s amused tone made Daenerys see she didn’t care how Arya knew. It didn’t matter now. Still, Arya answered. “The snow, I heard your boots in the snow.”

Daenerys looked down. She was wearing her riding boots from her time with the Khal, modified to accommodate the cold, she’d had fur sewn inside to retain warmth. “You said nothing,” she complained without any malice. 

“Thought you’d move on,” Arya explained, finally turning, “but you didn’t.”

Their eyes met, and Daenerys was struck by the distance between them. She closed it quickly. “Maybe I found what I was looking for,” she proposed. 

With an axe in one hand Arya moved too. When only inches remained between them she spoke, her voice soft and seductive, a tone she’d never heard when Arya interacted with anyone else. “Is that so?”

A gloved hand touched her bare arm and moved up, pushing the sleeve higher in an attempt to access more skin. “Mmhmm.”

Unable to resist and feeling as though she waited long enough Daenerys lifted up onto her toes to kiss her. Although she didn’t resist, or retreat she also didn’t kiss back, not until Daenerys’s tongue wiggled its way into her mouth. As it rolled around, Arya slowly began to respond. With one more grunt, she threw the axe down in the snow and snared Daenerys in her hold. She was glad to be caught. 

It was frantic and hungry, making up for the lost time. When air was at a premium and they pulled apart, Daenerys couldn’t contain her smile. “Hello to you too.”

For an instant she saw delight in her grey eyes, the passion Daenerys felt reflected back, but it didn’t last long. “We can’t,” she said, hiding her feelings again. “You’re to be married. You and Jon…”

This was becoming repetitive. Each time they enjoyed even the tiniest bit of pleasure for themselves Arya would try to run. Daenerys understood. The honor she felt she no longer had, instilled long ago by Ned Stark made it difficult for her to be with Daenerys when she was scheduled to marry Jon. “We aren’t married yet,” Daenerys reminded her, stealing another kiss that Arya returned from the start. 

The growl that came next did nothing to dampen her desire. “Soon.”

“Arya,” Daenerys groaned as she wound their fingers together, one set gloved, the other bare. “Please.”

It was unbecoming of a Queen to beg, to plead, but that was insignificant. She needed this and if the fire in Arya’s eyes was any indication she wasn’t alone. In an attempt to win the argument for the both of them, she attached her mouth Arya’s neck, using her teeth in a way she knew her lover enjoyed. 

In a move she hadn’t anticipated Arya’s strong hands settled on her ass and lifted her up, causing Daenerys to squeal against her neck. The added height not only made it easier for her to feast on the flesh but also to wrap her legs around Arya’s waist. 

She had no idea how long they stayed like that, one of Arya’s forearms under her, the other hand playing in her silver hair. However long it was, it wasn’t nearly enough. 

She thought the discussion was over, but Arya’s honor reared its head one more time. “We can’t,” she said as she settled Daenerys back onto her own two feet. They were both breathing heavily, and Daenerys noticed Arya’s eyes kept darting to her breasts before she’d catch herself and meet the Queen’s eye. “We can’t, you’re promised to Jon, you’re going to marry.” 

“All true,” Daenerys allowed as she took another kiss. This time Arya did try to back up, to prevent the contact but Daenerys wasn’t deterred. Arya wanted this as badly as she did, she could tell, and she was going to make certain they got it. When the kiss was over and it was time for Daenerys to make her final point, she took joy from the fact that Arya’s lips looked swollen from their kissing and her oak-steady legs seemed slightly unsure. “Every word you’ve said is true, I will marry Jon, but I’m not married yet.” 

“Daenerys,” Arya whispered as the Khaleesi inched closer. She tried to back up again but couldn’t. Daenerys had worked her against the wall, trapping her there. 

“Soon I’ll be married, but tonight I’m yours.”

One more growl, three heartbeats of doubt and then their situation was changed. Their mouths came together, and moans passed between them as often as tongues. She lifted one of her legs in invitation and Arya didn’t make her wait. She picked her up again and once Daenerys had settled Arya turned them. Soon it was Daenerys’s back and not Arya’s against the wall. That’s where they remained for the next several hours. 

It was when they were finished that she saw the coin for the first time. She’d dozed off on a bed of their clothes. What might have seemed crude, or beneath her in other circumstances, with Arya felt right. She hadn’t meant to sleep, but her lover had tired her out. She woke startled, unsure of where she was until the memories came back, accompanied by the enjoyable sting in her muscles. “You’re safe Daenerys, go back to sleep,” Arya said in the darkness. 

Rolling over she found Arya sitting, her back against the wall where they’d made love, wearing only her pants and staring straight ahead. Before Daenerys could ask what she was doing, she saw movement. It was fast, and in her drowsy state she barely understood. Arya was flipping a coin into the air and then catching it before it could fall. “What’s that,” she asked, as she pulled the coat she’d been using as a blanket around her. How was it that Arya could be so unbothered by the cold?

“The coin of the Faceless Men,” she explained, flicking it again. She said nothing further until she caught it in her fist. With a sigh she held it out to the woman next to her. “It’s tradition.”

“What kind of tradition?” she asked taking the coin and feeling the engravings. It was hard to see much in the dark, but she tried. 

“All in the order carry them,” she said. “They’re tokens, of gratitude or debt. If someone helps a Faceless Man, rescues them from meeting the Many Faced God for example, or helps them complete a mission they would have otherwise failed, these coins are given as payment. They can be exchanged for services, at a later time.” 

“Are they valuable?” she wondered, unaware then just how meaningful her inquiry. 

“Depends who you ask.”

“Is this your coin?” Daenerys questioned, “or were you given this one?”

It was so dark she almost didn’t see when Arya finally looked at her. “Both actually,” she said taking the coin back. “Before I left Westeros I saved man’s life. He…”

The cold didn’t matter, not the snow she was lying on, or her state of undress, all she cared about was Arya and the story she was telling. Even though Arya clearly had more to say, Daenerys couldn’t remain silent. “Who was he?”

“Another stranger in chains,” Arya answered. “I knew little of him then, but his name was Jaqen and he became my mentor.” 

The coin was handed over to Daenerys. “He gave you this, then?”

“Yes, he did,” she admitted, staring off into space. “Before we parted he said he’d train me if I wished it. After my mother and brother were killed, I did.” 

In their months together, revelations such as this were rare, so Daenerys hung on every word. Arya didn’t typically discuss the dead. 

“The same coin I used to gain entry into the temple was given back to me when my training was complete. It became my coin, to give to another.”

“Have you ever…” she started to ask before she realized how stupid the question was. Of course, Arya hadn’t. If she had, it wouldn’t be with her now. 

“To answer your other question, it is valuable, to the Faceless Men most of all,” she said, taking Daenerys’s hand in hers, and locking the coin between their palms. 

“Why?”

“We are assassins,” she said, staring straight into Daenerys’s eyes. The Dragon felt the air leave her, a tightness forming in her chest as she listened to Arya’s heartfelt confession. “Creatures of vile action. We are killers, most certainly destined for Hell.” 

“Arya,” Daenerys gasped. 

“The coin,” she continued, as if Daenerys hadn’t spoken. “This coin,” she pulled her hand back and although Daenerys tried to keep hold, she wasn’t strong enough. It took her longer than it should’ve to realize that not only had Arya taken back her hand, but the coin as well. She held it up between them in the dark. “Some of my kind believe this coin has a second purpose. It’s said that when a Faceless Man reaches the end of his life and goes to meet the Many Faced God he can present our patron with his coin and purchase forgiveness for all his sins, gaining entry into a different afterlife, a better one.” 

Daenerys didn’t know what to say. Even if she had, she wasn’t sure her mouth would obey. Time stood still until she felt Arya’s hand on her again, passing her the coin a final time. “Take this Daenerys, wherever you go, whatever you do.”

No! She couldn’t. If the coin was as Arya described it and she had no reason to doubt her, then she should keep it. Daenerys hated the idea of harm coming to her. The thought of her death froze her blood to ice in her veins. “No,” she eventually verbalized. “I couldn’t. You might need it, you might…” 

It was no mystery which words she left unsaid, ‘you might die.’ While she reeled at the thought, Arya remained her calm self, unbothered by the prospect. “Keep it, I’ll come back for it, I promise.”

If she hadn’t been so taken aback, she might have understood the pain being foretold. Arya would be leaving, no matter how much the Queen wished otherwise. 

R-C

The walk to Ellaria’s cell was interrupted by a group of guards, sitting around a table. Upon noticing her they all stood, and one even put his hand near his sword. “Why have you come?” he demanded to know. 

“Torches for Lady Sand,” she answered, keeping her head down. “Mia is ill.” 

“Go on then,” he instructed. 

“Thank you kindly, Ser,” she replied. 

“Brandon, escort the girl to the cell.” 

Grey eyes peeked up, moving from face to face until she found Brandon, the youngest of the lot. He was obviously chosen for a job no other wanted. She said nothing until there was enough space between them and the other guards to speak privately. As she went Arya noticed most of the cells were full, although few looked at them as they passed. 

“You don’t guard Lady Sand’s cell?” she asked, her surprise sincere. She expected a fight would be unavoidable to even set eyes on Ellaria. 

Brandon barked a laugh. “Is you kidding? No one goes down to the end unless they have to. You’ll be able to smell it soon.”

“Smell what?”

“Shit, piss and a rotting Dornish princess,” he answered. “It’s bad ‘nuff we got to force food and water down her throat once a day. Besides, who’s going to come save’r anyways?” 

Who indeed? Just as he promised, she was nearly overcome by the scent of decomposition and other things she didn’t want to identify. “Be quick about it,” Brandon ordered as he unlocked the door. “I’ll wait.”

“Quick as I can Ser,” she promised. 

The guards really were afraid to venture this far down. Brandon, with his armor and sword retreated to a distance three cells away once the door was open. Arya went in alone. 

Even with all her experience at the temple, and at Harrenhal she nearly vomited at the sight. Tyene Sand was chained to one wall, just as Mia said. Her body sagged lifeless, most of her tanned skin black with death. Rot had set in and judging by the strain on her joints, Arya suspected her shoulders would soon fail, causing the body to puddle, while the arms remained unconnected in their chains. Turning her head, she saw Ellaria, opposite her. Unlike her daughter, she lived. With her head down, she appeared to be unconscious. 

Steeling herself against the smells she put a hand on Ellaria’s chin and tilted her head back. No response. She slapped her, once and then twice, still nothing. “Ellaria!” she said, cautious of the guard nearby. It would be a bloody fight if she provoked them now, but she’d win if she had to. She’d start with Brandon and then using his sword, move on to the rest. The guards looked lazy, likely a product of too many years fighting those who couldn’t defend themselves. Arya would be different, she was a Wolf. 

The head lifted, and Arya was pleased to have some measure of response. “They killed her!” she screamed without warning. “They killed her!” 

Arya clamped a hand down over her mouth to silence the noble. “Shhh. Lady Sand… Lady Sand! Daenerys sent me. Do you remember Daenerys?”

She watched her eyes carefully for any hint she understood but Arya saw none. She tentatively removed her hand and the woman from Dorne did nothing more than pick up where she left off. “They killed her! They killed Tyene, kissed her and she died, I see her!” she howled, looking past Arya to her daughter. 

Dropping the torch Arya did her best to think quickly. This wasn’t going to work. Even if she killed the guards she couldn’t take Ellaria upstairs in her current state. Likewise, she’d be caught for sure if she had to try and carry the Dornish Queen. Not even escape through the tunnels could accommodate a raving mad-woman. Free or not, she was in no position to rally her army, let alone lead them. She’d be of no use to Daenerys now. 

She looked at Tyene’s corpse and then Ellaria, who had forgotten she was there and was busy muttering to herself. She knew if it were Daenerys chained to wall, while she’d been forced to watch her die a horrible death, she’d lose her mind too. Somethings were just too much. She could go, leave Ellaria to her madness and flee the same way she’d come, but it felt wrong. Cersei was torturing her out of spite and she’d suffered enough. Braavos had some of the most gifted healers in the world and not even they could solve such a crisis. “End it,” the Kindly Man would say, when death was the only mercy left. She did. Clasping a hand over Ellaria’s mouth again she gripped her dirty hair tightly in the other. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the lost woman. “Find peace.” There was no struggle, no resistance, not even acceptance. She was empty. The sound of her neck breaking in the quiet was nearly worse than the smell. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Sorry this one is so short. Seemed like a good spot to end it before the pace picked up. In the next chapter Jon tries to get in, Arya tries to get out and Daenerys tries to keep busy. 
> 
> Until Next Time - As long as my health cooperates the next chapter should be ready this weekend


	8. Chapter 8

Cersei Lannister was one of the meanest bitches to drawn air, noble or common. Born to a powerful, prominent family she’d lied, cheated and killed to rise to a level not even her scheming father could have predicted. Yet it still wasn’t enough to change the hearts and minds of the men in Westeros. Even with a ruthless Queen atop the Iron Throne most men and certainly most soldiers still viewed women as little more than window dressing. There were exceptions of course, a single glance at Brienne of Tarth could make even the most hardened commander wary and a few minutes with little Lyanna Mormont and Arya doubted anyone could doubt her authority, but such examples were few and far between. 

“Exploit the weaknesses of your enemy.” She heard it first while avoiding the Septa, hiding nearby while her father and Ser Rodrick educated her brothers. 

Her time with Syrio took the principle one step further. “The eyes can be tricked,” he’d say. “They see only what they want. This makes them stupid.” 

Like most things she began in Westeros she finished in Braavos under the tutelage of Jaqen and the Kindly Man. She’d been a good student and that’s why she was able to walk right past the guards in the Red Keep after murdering Ellaria Sand and barely get a second glance. They didn’t think of her as a threat and as a result, when they looked, they only saw what she wanted them to, another nameless servant. 

“Took you long enough,” Brandon complained. 

“She kept talking,” she explained, working to sound applauded by what she’d experienced. It wasn’t all that difficult. “I was startled.”

“She’s mad,” Brandon said. “The Queen stole her mind.” 

“Why not kill her?”

“And end up in the cell next to hers? No thank you. She’ll die when Queen Lannister demands it and not before.” 

In the safety of the stairwell leading up Arya knew she was only half finished. She still needed to escape. Almost immediately she saw a flurry of activity, the guards that had been simply standing at their posts when she arrived where now moving, swords in hand, searching. She knew what they were looking for and why. Myrans’s unconscious woman had been discovered and they now hunted for Lanna. She would have been more comfortable with a weapon, any weapon but that couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to hope that the change of clothes would be enough. 

She avoided the main areas, the spots where several hallways converged. She knew from experience that that was where Cersei would station guards. She also knew that for every well-decorated, clean hallway used by the highborn there was another passage meant for the staff. Gods forbid Cersei had to see the woman who emptied her chamber pot actually doing so. 

Three more turns if her memory held true. Three turns and there’d be an exit she could make use of. There would be guards surely, but she was confident she could talk or fight her way through. Once she was outside it wouldn’t be too much of a challenge to get herself lost in the crowded streets of King’s Landing. She’d done it before. 

“What do you mean you can’t find her?” Jaime Lannister shouted at someone from just up ahead. “She’s one woman. Double the guards at every exit and seal every window. Find her!” 

She should have known her luck couldn’t hold out forever. Turning abruptly, she walked back the way she’d came as quickly as she could without running. A new plan would be required. Sealed gates were more than she could defeat before reinforcements would arrive. Without a weapon it’d be a death sentence. She didn’t fear death, but that wasn’t rushing to meet it either. In a small alcove holding a potted plant she closed her eyes and thought back to her time spent in this place. Where could she connect to the tunnels?

R-C

They were a party of five when they reached land. Jon, Davos and three of his most loyal men. The ship’s crew, and everything containing a Stark sigil was left on the boat. They needed to blend in now if they were going to have any hope. “Two hours,” he said to them. “We meet back here in two hours. Anyone who isn’t here has to make their own way back to Dragonstone.”

“We’ll need to split up,” one of them said, confirming what Jon already intended. 

“I agree, it’s the only way we’ll have a chance of finding her.” The man who suggested it puffed up in pride at his King’s agreement. 

“What if she doesn’t believe us? Doesn’t want to come?” another wondered. 

Jon had considered that too. “You tell her that I wish to see her, that it’s urgent, a family matter.”

“She could think it’s a trap.”

“Tell her you know that she had a direwolf named Nymeria when she was a girl, and that mine was named Ghost. That should convince her.” 

They stayed together until Davos had guided them through the smuggler’s entrance and then he issued commands. “North,” he said to one man. “South,” the next, “East” the third. “You check the West,” he said to Davos and I’ll go to the Street of Steel.”

His advisor waited until the others were gone before questioning his King. “We should stay together, if they recognize you…”

Jon knew well what would happen if he was recognized and found alone but it couldn’t be helped. “If they realize who I am one extra sword won’t make a difference.” He could tell Davos wanted to object, so he didn’t give him the chance. “If I’m not here in two hours you go without me, don’t wait. If you find Arya you drag her kicking and screaming back to Dragonstone, I don’t care what she says.” 

“I can’t…”

“You have to,” Jon said, putting his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You’re my friend and the only one I can trust with this. If I’m not here, get my sister the fuck out of King’s Landing.”

Satisfied Davos understood he began to turn, only to be stopped when Davos reached for the medallion he wore. “You should have left this on the ship.”

Jon knocked his hand away before he could touch the dragon and wolf pendant. “Don’t touch that.”

“If they see…”

This was not up for debate. It was a gift from Arya, even after she knew he wasn’t her brother, even after she knew Jon intended to marry the woman she loved. “I haven’t taken it off since it was given to me and I’m not going to start now. If Cersei wants this medallion, she’ll need to take my head.”

“I don’t think she’ll have a problem accepting your terms,” Davos said, bringing humor to a gruesome situation. 

He chuckled. As a peace offering, he tucked the medallion under his shirt, hiding the depiction of two dragons and the wolf beneath his clothes. “Better?”

“Better than nothing,” he acknowledged. 

Jon squeezed his shoulder. “Go! Time’s wasting.” 

R-C

She was stopped only once on the route to the tunnel. A guard questioned where she was going, and she lied, saying she was carrying a message from the King Slayer to the Queen. Just as she hoped the guard was too afraid of Cersei’s wrath to delay her more than necessary. In fact, he gave her helpful advice. “Run then. Don’t keep the Queen waiting!” 

Her path to the tunnel had one final obstacle. Not in the hallway as all the others had been, but in the room itself, standing over the very trapdoor that would lead to her freedom. Security had tightened. Under Robert’s rule, no one would have thought to protect such an obscure route. It was only one man, but he was wearing plate armor, complete with helmet and unlike her, he had a sword. The contents of the room had changed too, it had been converted to some kind of sitting room with large windows, several seats and cases lined with books. 

Taking one last look around the room before she entered, she scrubbed furiously over her eyes to redden them and then she closed them tight, until tears were burning behind her lids. She pushed them out and made a show of stumbling in. “Help,” she called, “my eyes, some woman, she blinded me!” 

She’d hoped her ruse would be enough to get her close. Once she was, she’d grab for his sword and the fight would be on, but he was well-trained and smarter than most. “Stop. Show me your face!” he ordered. “Who are you girl?”

All the time spent without use of her eyes proved invaluable now. She could feel his presence and knew exactly how many steps it would take to reach him. On guard, he pulled his weapon. “Help Ser, please, a woman, she came up from behind and blinded me, I cannot see!”

He took only the smallest step toward her. “Show me your face!” he commanded again. “Tell me who you are!”

“Mercy Ser,” she said, not caring if he took it as a name or a plea. It wouldn’t matter. Her only hope for escape required this man dead and so it had to be. 

Ignoring his requests, she waited until he came closer and closer still. She exaggerated her crying to justify her lack of response and kept her head down. Finally, he was close enough to touch, gripped her dark hair, pulling up hard to view her face. “A scar! In her…”

His call for support was muffled by Arya’s body when she threw herself into him. That alone, wouldn’t have been enough to knock him down, but she also kicked wildly at his knees. After three misses she struck her target. As they fell the Gods cursed her. In the air, the man twisted to his left, taking his sword arm with him. She didn’t have enough time to avoid the steel and as a result took a gash across her middle, a wide cut deep into her stomach. She mashed her teeth against the pain and rolled way, forcing herself up. Being younger and more determined than him, she got to her feet first. He was still on his knees when they collided again, this time Arya was careful to avoid his sword. She gripped his wrist with both hands to control the blade while they wrestled about. 

Every second made the pain worse. The flow of blood would have been concerning, if she’d paid it any mind. She was too focused on the battle. She wouldn’t lose, couldn’t lose. She’d vowed not to die in this place when she was a child, she hadn’t come back to break that oath now. The second tackle knocked his helmet off and for that she was grateful. Risking being cut again she took one hand off his arm and went for his hair. Grabbing the light locks, she used them as a handle, jerking toward her and then forcing his head back until it connected with the floor. He cut her a second time, in the arm, before she drew his blood. It was the third strike of his head that did it, but she wasn’t through. When he went limp under her she slammed his head two more times for good measure. Satisfied she rolled off him and crawled toward the hole in the floor. At least it was still there. She hadn’t selected the wrong place. 

With the fight concluded the extent of her injuries became clear. She did battle with the pain as she’d done with him. Closing the door first, then locking it and finally baring it with an overturned table. “Son of a whore,” she complained as the simple act of moving the table doubled her pain. She folded her right arm against her middle to stem the bleeding and then went for the trapdoor. When it was open, she stuck her head down first, confirming it was empty. She dragged the guard’s body over and pushed it through, hoping to delay its discovery, even briefly. With his sword in her bloodstained left hand she climbed down after it. 

R-C

He was nearly out of time. He hadn’t seen a sign of Arya anywhere. She’d told him once she liked listening to the sound of the hammers against the steel at the Winterfell forge, so he thought she’d be near the Street of Steel. One by one he’d checked the shops, merchants and forges with no success. He hadn’t even picked up a trace. No one he talked to admitted seeing her or speaking to her in the last few weeks. His best hope was that one of the others had found her where he’d failed. 

He’d have to go back soon, to the boat, to Dragonstone. If he didn’t trust Bran so implicitly, he might have thought they were looking in the wrong place. Jon didn’t like the idea of returning to Dragonstone and Daenerys empty handed. King or not, he was likely to become Drogon’s dinner. 

“Seal the gates!” one guard yelled to another. “Close’m tight!”

As the soldiers neared Jon reached for his concealed blade. Had he revealed himself somehow? Did they know? 

The men passed, sprinting toward the keep. His relief was short lived. If they weren’t closing the city for him, then who? The answer was in his mind before the question finished. “Arya,” he said out loud. 

Fully aware of all the reasons he shouldn’t, Jon took off running toward the Red Keep. 

R-C

The guard’s stolen armor did a good job of hiding her wounds, but she didn’t have long. She needed to get some place safe and sew them closed before she lost too much blood. With the helmet, she was confident her face was obscured enough to prevent being noticed. Her journey through the tunnels took even longer than her first time, when she spent more time lost than searching. She had to stop repeatedly to regain herself. She also needed the support of the wall to keep upright. 

She’d just returned to the streets when she saw him, Jon, she could pick him out anywhere. What the hell was he doing here? Was he attacking? She looked around for any signs of Northmen and saw none. What was happening? He had his back to her, and was running away, toward the keep. She tried to call, but as she filled her lungs with air, the wound on her stomach burned. She shouted his name, but the result was shallow, and not nearly enough to close the distance. Folded over in pain, she tried to recover, to ready herself for another attempt. She didn’t get that far. “Arya Stark!” she heard from behind her. 

She’d been wrong. Wrong about everything. Her wounds weren’t minor, the helmet didn’t sufficiently conceal her, she should have taken his face and not just his gear. Most importantly she was going to die in this place. Still, she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Arya kept her empty hand against the gash, even through the plate she could feel it leaking. She slowly lifted her arm, sword and all, in a false show of surrender. 

Weak as she was, she let him get close and had intentions of going straight for the neck. This would likely be her last stand. Valar Morghulis. 

When the hand came down on her injured arm she turned, tapping into the last bit of her strength. She cried out in pain as she lifted her knee into his balls. Their heights were nearly the same as he recoiled. She staggered as she tried to swing the sword, buying him enough time to say, “Nymeria and Ghost! Nymeria and Ghost damn it!” 

She wasn’t sure she could trust her ears. She wobbled forward, and he gripped her by the waist, supporting her without aggression. “The fuck you say?” 

“Direwolves,” he said as he took her wrist and gently steered the sword away from him. “Yours was Nymeria, his was Ghost.” She relaxed slightly, and he continued, looking pleased she no longer meant to kill him. “Name’s Davos, friend of your brother. I’m here to help.”

Ghost. Jon. She remembered how she’d seem him and where he was going. “We need to stop him. He’s going toward the keep!”

“We need to get you out of here,” Davos corrected. “We came for you. Jon’s orders…”

“Fuck Jon’s orders!” she challenged before another wave of agony came. She would have fallen for sure if not for Davos. “We need to h… fuck… we need to help him.”

“You’re hurt,” he said, stating the obvious. “You can’t.” His eyes were on her bloody hands suggestively, as if to prove his point. 

She pulled air into her mouth through tightly closed teeth. “They’ll kill him.”

“He came for you. We need to get you to the ship.”

She put a hand against his chest and pushed off. “H…help me,” she said, her voice breaking before she could fix it. “Help me or die first and I’ll go alone.”

“Fine,” he said, laying one of her arms around his neck. “Come on then, we need to hurry. If he gets to the keep before us, he’s a dead man!”” 

R-C

The walk through the streets of King’s Landing was slow and she might have lost consciousness once or twice. She allowed herself to be pulled along by Davos, leaving him to do the lion’s share of the work. “I don’t know how we’re going to save him as we are,” he said, clearly thinking out loud more than actually talking to her. 

Still, she knew the answer. It took two false attempts before her mouth would produce the words she wanted. “I…injured soldier. I’m… injure… you… you’re bringing me back.” 

When the reply wasn’t immediately forthcoming she wondered if she’d failed again, then she heard a dark chuckle. “Clever thinkin’, that’ll work.”

Arya’s eyes were clouded but she could tell how serious the situation was. Her damn brother hadn’t even made it to the gate. He was still blocks away and he’d already been captured. Luckily, that would probably be the only thing that gave them a fighting chance. If they’d been closer, or if most of the attention wasn’t focused inside hunting for her, there’d be more men on the streets, too many for them to hope to fend off. Jon stood at the center of four heavily armed men, three with swords and one using a bow. He had his hands up, but Arya recognized the way his eyes were sweeping side to side, he was looking for an opening. “Fuck,” Davos said as he saw the state of things. “Here.” He pressed the handle of a small curved knife against her palm. She immediately hid it under her arm, against the breastplate. “Guards!” he yelled, “Here! Found one of yours bleedin’. He needs help bad!” 

Her cry to emphasize her injuries was more real than fake. One of the guards moved away from Jon to tend to Arya, while his friends remained. Davos passed her over and then positioned himself near a second. “What’s your name?” the soldier asked, as he led her toward the others. 

“Do you want this?” Davos asked, holding up the sword he’d taken from her and that she’d taken from the guard. 

Arya was first, but Jon and Davos quickly took her lead. While her companion was still sufficiently separated from his partners, she produced the knife and went for his eye. He thought the only danger was Jon and so he hadn’t seen it coming until it was too late. Davos swung the sword he was offering at the second man, slicing just under his neck, and Jon used a dagger to fend off the others. She wanted to get to him, to help, but she couldn’t. The minute she no longer had support, she collapsed. 

Through a fog, in the dirt, she watched Davos and Jon defeat their opponents. The only misstep being Davos moving in front of an arrow to protect Jon and getting pierced in the shoulder. “You crazy old man!” Jon protested as he pulled the arrow from his friend’s body. 

“You’re welcome,” he replied sarcastically.

“Come on. We need to get back to the boas.” 

“She can’t walk,” Davos said accurately. She tried to prove him wrong, to stand despite his words but her attempts were futile. 

“How bad is it?”

“Don’t know,” he admitted, as her eyes grew heavy. “Lots of blood, but she’s alive. She’s a tough one your sister.” 

“Yes, she is,” he said with admiration. “You lead, I’ll carry her. We need to go before more come!” She’d prolonged it as long as she could. She surrendered to the void. 

R-C

Daenerys sat on the Dragon Throne, listening to Jorah and two Dothraki argue over which style of fighting was superior. On her other side Tyrion was enjoying his wine and a book. He closed it as soon as Missandei and Grey Worm arrived with their guests. “Your Grace, Yara and Theon Greyjoy.”

She smiled warmly and climbed down to greet them on equal terms. Yara seemed eager to do the same. They embraced, and Daenerys felt relief at having her friend and ally back. “Yara, welcome.” 

When the hug was over she stepped back and took the opportunity to give the Lady Reaper a once over. She looked remarkably similar to when they first met, even after months of captivity and torture at the hands of her uncle. A little paler, with darker purple bags under her eyes but mostly intact. The biggest difference was the raw red marks that still stained her wrists, obviously left by some form of chain. Yara smiled at her. “Your Grace, lovely to see you again, you’re looking as beautiful as ever.” Daenerys had trouble believing it. After all she’d been through, Yara could still smile and joke. It was a testament to how strong she was. 

Instead of returning to the throne, they left the room and went in search of a more relaxing place to get reacquainted. “Missandei, can you bring us some food and drink please, we have much to celebrate.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“I owe you my thanks,” Yara said when they were through with the initial meaningless conversation. “If you hadn’t sent Arya to aid me, I’d still be in my uncle’s clutches and Theon too most likely.” Daenerys glanced at Yara’s brother from the corner of her eye and saw him nod his agreement. 

After Theon she looked to Tyrion and he spoke without words, reminding her of their earlier discussion. Daenerys hadn’t forgotten. It might have been wrong, allowing Yara to believe Daenerys was involved in her rescue but revealing the truth wouldn’t benefit any of them. “You didn’t need to come all this way just to thank me,” she said truthfully. “I was just glad to hear everything worked out well.” 

“Is Pyke secure with both of you here?” Tyrion wondered. 

The siblings shared a look and then Yara answered. “Some still oppose us, but we have the fleet back under our control.” 

“Some ships and their captains remained loyal to Euron and the Lannisters,” Theon explained. “When orders were sent for them to return they refused.” 

“How many?” her Hand questioned. 

“Less than a quarter, all told,” Yara admitted. 

“What of the opposition? Without you there will there be an attempt to overthrow you?”

“None of Euron’s surviving loyalists have the ships or men to mount a serious attack. For the time being Pyke is safe.” Yara’s reply came between bites of fruit and she grinned playfully. “Besides, even if someone steals my throne while I’m away, you can just lend me your Wild Wolf to take it back again.” She popped a grape into her mouth. “Theon here didn’t think one soldier could be of any help, especially a woman,” Yara joked. 

Blushing, Theon kept his eyes down as he mumbled. “It wasn’t that… I just…”

“Relax, little brother. I would have thought the same thing in your boots and I would have been wrong too. Arya’s one of a kind and more than enough.” 

Thoughts of Arya filled her mind and Daenerys couldn’t help but worry. Jon had been gone for days and still hadn’t sent word. Did he find her? Had she refused to return? Had something else gone wrong? She had so few answers. 

Thankfully, Tyrion picked up the slack while she was daydreaming. “…and Euron?”

“Dead,” she answered grimly. “Too quick and painless if you ask me, but we didn’t have the chance to take our time.” 

“What’s next?” 

Yara smiled at the Queen again. “Hopefully an attack on King’s Landing. Arya told us the war was inevitable and I couldn’t just sit back and let you have all the fun.” 

While she appreciated the gesture, Daenerys hadn’t excepted to see Yara in battle. She’d been through a lot and had the Iron Islands to rule. The support of the fleet was plenty. “Arya’s right,” she admitted. 

“With the addition of your ships we are discussing plans for a blockade,” Tyrion continued, “stopping trading vessels and other ships from reaching the capitol.” 

“I love it,” she said without hesitation. “Just tell me where you need me.”

“Thank you,” she replied sincerely, “but are you certain?” 

“Absolutely. After the dungeons, the recovery and all the time queens have to sit around talking, what I need most is to be at the helm of Black Wind, the breeze in my hair, the sun on my face.” 

“Very well then. When the time comes, we could definitely put you to use.” 

The conversation turned casual for several minutes before Yara changed directions without warning. “Is Arya here? I thought she might come back after she left Pyke.”

Tyrion and Missandei both tried to catch her eye, but Daenerys avoided them expertly, not wanting to see their pity. “No, she didn’t return. Jon went in search of her and I expect their return shortly.” 

She finished chewing on a piece of cheese before she nodded. “That’s right, my apologies I meant to congratulate you when we first arrived. You got married!”

This wasn’t the first time Daenerys had been congratulated on their union. She accepted with a false smile, just as she’d done so many times before. “Thank you.”

“We would have loved to have been there,” she said, “but I was a little tied up back on Pyke.” 

Few people she knew could jest about their captivity. Tyrion’s wine froze midway to his mouth before he set it down without a taste, Missandei hid a giggle behind an awkward cough and Daenerys just smiled. It was good to have Yara back. 

To their left, Theon seemed less comfortable with his sister’s comment. “Yara,” he chastised, shaking his head. 

R-C

The first time she woke she had no idea where she was. Her initial response was to reach for her hip, where the sword should be, and she immediately regretted it. Pain stabbed into her gut worse than any spear she’d ever taken. “Fuck,” she cursed, hearing how her voice sounded weak and raw. She tried to sit. 

Strong hands pressed lightly on her shoulders, keeping her down. “Relax,” Jon whispered, as though he somehow knew she had a blistering headache. “You’re safe, just lie back and go to sleep. We’re almost home.”

Home? Why did that word sound so unusual, so foreign? She tried to remember what happened and failed. All she got were fragments she couldn’t piece together. Yelling voices, blood, clashing steel, a wolf’s growl, gentle hands, violet eyes. Home. When the sleep came to pull her under she didn’t even try to fight it, not that she would have succeeded. 

R-C

Five Months Before the Wedding

The punch came directly toward her face and when she saw it, she smiled. With the slight tilt of her head, she avoided all but a single knuckle, as she slammed two quick punches into her opponent’s ribs. She didn’t feel them break, but they’d definitely be sore. 

She slipped under one punch and then another, her eyes bright with excitement and joy. The man was significantly bigger than she was, but that also made him slower. When he did hit her though, it felt as if she’d been struck with a plank of wood. 

All of her senses were heightened. Every nerve in her body was standing on end. She could hear the hard-packed snow cracking under her boots, she could smell dinner wafting through an open window and she could see her opponent coming toward her again. As for what she felt, her eye stung from a lucky shot he delivered earlier, and her legs were starting to burn from all the dodging she was forced to do. She could even taste a fresh storm on the air, along with the tang of her blood as it dripped from a small cut on the inside of her cheek. 

She danced her way behind her prey and kicked him squarely in the center of his back. She expected him to tumble but he only staggered. When he turned in her direction she could see the determination on his face and she did little more than smile. This was the most fun she’d had in ages. 

Just as she was preparing to sidestep a particularly vicious blow, a bell rang nearby, and a voice came behind it. “Arya!” 

Ignoring the call, she avoided the strike and ended up on her opponent’s left. She hit him twice and he pivoted to knock her back. The massive paw he called a hand connected with the front of her chest, but she didn’t fall, she only teetered. Her eyes narrowed. 

“Arya,” the voice called again. 

Rather than approach her for another round, he stepped back. “Your sister beckons you, m’lady.”

Unimpressed she marched straight up to him and grabbed the front of his shirt. She yanked hard until his green eyes were on her level. “Don’t you dare pull another punch. I invited you to fight, not share tea. Hit me like you mean it, or you can go back to working in the kitchen.”

The man looked down. “I’m sorry m’lady, truly but your sister called for you and I thought…”

Her anger didn’t simmer, it bloomed. “You thought wrong. If it happens again, I’ll break your jaw.”

She released him and was in the process of heading back toward the judgmental voice that was summoning her, when she heard him say, “Of c…course, it won’t happen again Lady Stark.”

With an annoyed grunt, she returned to stand even closer than before. “Don’t call me Lady Stark. My sister is Lady Stark, but I am not.”

He’d gone from regretful to terrified, standing before her. “Certainly m…,” he stopped short when he didn’t know how to finish. 

“My name is Arya,” she told him as she walked away. Her voice rose to reach him over the wind. “Just Arya!”

R-C

Never in her life could she have predicted where she’d end up. Once, a lifetime ago Sansa had been a dumb girl with dreams of marrying a handsome prince and one day being royalty. When King Robert came to Winterfell, she felt like a character from one of the nighttime stories her mother used to tell her. Wasn’t that how they always started, the prince riding in to take her away. And oh, how desperately she wanted to get away. The harsh North was boring and uncivilized in comparison to how she imagined the South. When her father was named Hand of the King and wanted her with him in King’s Landing it was as if all her prayers had been answered. 

She thought she had it all figured out. She’d marry Joffrey and one day when he became King, she’d be there at his side, his Queen. She thought he’d cherish her, lavishing her with expensive gifts, pretty silk dresses and all the love she could handle. In return she’d love him back, honor and support his choices and mind their children. In the naivety of her mind they’d have at least three, two boys and a girl she guessed back then. Babies with his golden hair and her flawless skin. They were to be perfect, the envy of all her friends at court. 

Looking back now she could hardly believe how stupid she was. She told Littlefinger before Arya killed him that she was a slow learner and that was true, she was. If she hadn’t been, maybe she could have saved everyone a lot of pain and trouble. She could have gone to her father the first time Joffrey slapped her, sought help but she didn’t. That wasn’t what good wives did, was it?

So many hours spent dreaming of leaving Winterfell, of being married and when she finally got her wishes nothing was as she imagined it would be. She hadn’t known when she said goodbye to her mother and headed off that she’d be little more than a tool for others. The storybooks never speak of that. 

First, she was a means for Cersei to reign over Joffrey, using the prize of his beautiful future wife to reward him when he followed her direction. After her father’s execution she was tolerated only as a method of trying to tame her brother Robb. Later, her marriage to Tyrion was a cheap ploy to restore order in the largest of the Realm’s kingdoms. Trapped in the Red Keep, she’d cry until she ran out of tears. She dreamt of home and thought it couldn’t get any worse. It was a shame she hadn’t been right. 

She thought returning to the North would be better, safe. Ramsay Bolton, or Ramsay Snow, it didn’t matter, he was cruel by either name. Not even Joffrey’s vile treatment could prepare her for Ramsay. She’d always treated Jon poorly, as a man unworthy of her respect, certainly not a brother. Even so he came to save her. He fought a war for her and won. If life were a book, that would have been the end – good triumphs over evil – victory achieved but it didn’t happen that way. Not even Ramsay’s death could erase the horrors done to her, nothing could. 

Now she was a Queen, if only until Jon returned. The title, the glory, the respect didn’t belong to her, she was just holding it for someone else and in some ways that was worse than not having it at all. 

The door opened hard and fast, hitting the wall behind it. She looked up, on her feet in an instant. “By the Gods,” he cried as three of her garrison dragged Bran in on a wooden sled. “Bran!” She rushed to his side, falling on her knees while her brother’s teeth chattered violently before her. 

The others came after. Fifteen in total, ten soldiers meant to keep Bran safe and hunt for him and five servants who were to tend to his other needs. One by one they filed in, each looked colder and more tired than the previous. She said his name several times, but Bran didn’t seem to hear, he only stared straight ahead, vacant, visibly shivering. “Add more wood to the fire,” she ordered, not caring who did it. “Upstairs in the closet are blankets, bring them all and a fresh change of clothes.” 

“Right away m’lady,” someone said. 

“You,” she said pointing rudely. “Prepare my brother a bath and find the Maester.” She took his hand to try and illicit a response and felt as if she’d grabbed a block of ice. He was frozen solid. She shook her head when she felt the tears coming. No, she wasn’t allowed to cry. Now was not the time, Bran needed her. She couldn’t go through this again, she couldn’t lose them again. Jon went South with Daenerys, Arya was Gods knows where and now Bran was leaving her too. “What happened to him? You were supposed to take care of him!” 

“We tried m’lady,” a man said in justification. “He wouldn’t let us.” 

Wouldn’t let them? What did that mean? It didn’t matter, her questions were secondary. She’d get answers later. On the sled, all around and overtop of Bran’s body snow and ice had accumulated. He was dressed warmly but it wasn’t enough. Fur and blankets clearly couldn’t contend with whatever had happened. With her bare hands she began clearing the snow away. Once they saw what she was doing, others joined to help. By the time they finished, three separate fires were started around them and dry clothes had arrived. She sent everyone away, save the Maester and together they undressed him, checking for wounds.

She was at Bran’s bedside, carefully testing his forehead for a fever again when one of the men who accompanied him entered. “What happened to him?” she asked in a more subdued fashion this time. 

“I’m not entirely certain m’lady,” he admitted after a moment. “One night we went to sleep, three days toward Winterfell from the Wall, all was well and then it wasn’t.” 

She tried to glean what little information she could. So, they were returning from the Wall when it happened? Whatever it was. “Did he say anything?” she asked looking at her brother. There in the bed, it reminded her of how he’d been after his fall. The only difference this time was his eyes were open, even though he seemed unaware. 

“Aye, said we needed to hurry back here as fast as we could. Said there was no time for rest,” he recalled. 

“That’s impossible!” she objected. “The Wall’s miles from here. You’d need to rest and eat.”

He nodded. “We did, but Lord Stark insisted he keep moving. One or two of us was always pulling the sled, even when the others slept.” The man looked to the bed too. “When we’d wake, we’d have to hurry to catch him and replace the one that’d been walking all night.”

Nothing made any sense. Why would Bran behave in such a way? He was three days from the Wall, why not return there if he was in trouble? It would have been much faster and easier than making the trip to Winterfell. “He never told you why?”

“No m’lady, he rarely spoke at all.”

“Thank you,” she said, dismissing him. 

R-C

To anyone watching they’d both appear to be reading, but while Daenerys held a book in her lap and occasionally flipped the pages she couldn’t be bothered to actually take in the words. Missandei on the other hand looked completely captivated by the High Valyrian text she was studying. 

For a time, Daenerys became as engrossed in watching Missandei as the advisor was lost in the information. She noticed the way her finger traced the line, so she wouldn’t lose her place and how her brow would crinkle with effort when she was trying to understand a difficult passage. By far Daenerys’s favorite part was the way Missandei’s lips would move without sound, taking shape of the words she was seeing 

She closed her book with more force than was necessary, unintentionally causing a sound that brought dark eyes off the pages and onto her. “I’m sorry,” she said, having not intended to be a disruption. 

Missandei’s smile told her the apology was not required. “It’s fine.”

“Who taught you to read?” she heard herself ask. After meeting him, she found it hard to believe Kraznys would care enough to train her, and yet somehow her friend managed to learn to read, write and speak nineteen languages, more than any ten people in her service combined.

“My mother,” she answered without delay. She set a marker in her book to note the page and closed it, pushing it to the corner of the table for later. “She was a trainer of others,” Missandei remembered, “teaching them reading, writing, numbers.” 

Daenerys instantly feared she’d raised painful memories but Missandei smiled brightly. While they discussed many things when they were alone together, she rarely mentioned her family. Daenerys was aware her parents had been killed by the same slavers that took her, that was the extent of her knowledge. “She sounds incredible.”

“She was,” she agreed. “She insisted I practice my reading every night before sleep.” Her smile grew wider as she continued. “She’d sit with my father, her back against his chest and his arms around her middle. Together they’d listen to me fumble around in one language or another, mother softly correcting my errors as I went.” 

Though she recalled it perfectly Daenerys had trouble picturing it. Not because of anything Missandei said, but because her childhood had been nothing like that. Her youth had always been frantic, moving from place to place, the only constants were Viserys and his anger. Whether they were scrounging for food or living well in the grace of someone loyal to their family, her brother’s fury loomed over them. He was furious at their circumstance, at those who cared for them, at her and the usurpers who had stolen what he felt entitled to. Hearing Missandei speak of a time before the slavers warmed her inside and reminded her there were other ways to live, better ways. 

“My turn to ask a question,” Missandei decided. “When did you and Arya…” she paused and redirected. “When did it become more than talk.”

Daenerys met Missandei’s eye and knew at once what she was truly asking. “It all started with a black eye,” she confessed. 

R-C

Five Months Before the Wedding

Observing Arya whenever she got the chance had become a favored hobby for Daenerys. It was rapidly building into an obsession. They talked frequently, often alone into the early morning hours, always at the same table next to the large fire in the Winterfell courtyard. Since their first in-depth conversation Daenerys felt the nightmares she was plagued by start to recede, although not vanish completely. They talked if they met during the day, typically briefly but no less sincerely. In those instances, Daenerys enjoyed her company immensely, even as their separate duties forced them to part before she was ready. She couldn’t explain it, but their talks felt too private, too personal to be held in the light of day, with others around to hear. It’s why she’d begun to wake on purpose when the moon was high in the Northern sky and go wandering out into the cold. Sometimes Arya was waiting for her, sometimes not, but Daenerys never regretted a moment of lost sleep. If Arya wasn’t outside she’d smile to herself, pleased that the assassin was enjoying rest without interruption and then she would go back inside quietly. 

She wasn’t the only one who had trouble containing Arya’s free spirit. It wasn’t uncommon for the chair further down the table meant for her to remain empty for half the dinner hour or more. On such occasions, Daenerys would worry needlessly over where Arya had gone, concerned that something bad might have happened to her. 

On one particular night, she arrived late covered in bruises and what Daenerys could only hope was mud. Like her, she could see Sansa had questions, but the conversation was casual for the remainder of the meal. Not having Sansa’s restraint, she whispered her questions to Jon, but he just smiled, shook his head and said nothing. The Dragon had to wonder if Arya’s appearance was so common that it didn’t warrant discussion any longer? Looking at the dark-haired woman and then her concerned sister Daenerys doubted that to be true. 

When Sansa managed to wait until after they’d eaten, Daenerys knew the Northerner had more patience than she ever would. “What happened to your eye? Why are your clothes covered in filth and what is that smell?”

With the subject finally broached Daenerys found herself leaning forward in anticipation of the answer. Instead of words she and Sansa only got a smirk. 

“Talk to her,” Sansa said to Jon, obviously displeased with her lack of response. 

He looked unhappy about being placed in the middle between them, but Daenerys suspected this was a position he knew well. “I’m sure Arya is being careful, whatever she’s doing,” he said diplomatically. 

Arya tried to reassure her sister by putting a hand on her arm. “Sansa, I’m fine.” She gestured to her eye which was darkening rapidly and beginning to swell. It had become much worse just in the time she’d been in Daenerys’s sight. “This is nothing. I’ve had far worse.”

“That’s not the point,” the older sibling challenged. “You don’t need to fight all the time. The North is free, the Night King is miles away. We have peace for now.”

“Peace?” she said as if she didn’t understand the word. “Please Sansa, tell me you don’t believe that.” She spared a glance to the Queen and her Hand. “The North may be free, but we don’t have peace. You know Cersei. She might be focused elsewhere for the moment, but it won’t last, it can’t. Even if it did, the Undead are marching and they’re coming here. I need to be ready.” 

A hard expression shifted into one of indulgence. “That’s all true,” Sansa allowed, “but tell me, how does getting beaten to a pulp by the kitchen staff help any of that?”

Arya answered with a short laugh. “That was nothing, just exercise. We didn’t even have weapons.” 

Once again Sansa was serious. “Please, just be careful,” she begged. “I’ve already lost too much, I can’t lose you too.”

“I’m here and I’m not going anywhere,” Arya promised. 

Daenerys looked away, aware the moment wasn’t meant for her. Jon leaned in and whispered with a smile, “Just like when they were girls, fighting as fierce as Wildlings and Northmen and then one of them remembers they actually care.” 

Daenerys chuckled. So that’s what happened? It hadn’t looked like that from her seat, but Jon was the foremost expert. 

As was common, Arya fled the loud hall as soon as she could, disappearing as abruptly as she arrived. She waited a few minutes and then politely excused herself. She followed the route Arya had taken, hoping to find her and get the opportunity to verify she was indeed alright. 

Outside Arya stood nearby a brightly burning fire. As she got closer Daenerys could see she was holding a clump of ice and snow to her damaged eye, while her other hand twirled a beautifully crafted dagger effortlessly. She meant to go to her, to check on her, but her feet remained rooted to the ground. From a distance of more than ten feet, she was forced to simply watch. 

She didn’t understand at first, when Arya extended her arm and guided the dagger over the leaping flames. Panic erupted in her stomach as she rolled the dagger in her hand, heating the blade. Arya definitely didn’t have the blood of a dragon, so what in the name of the Gods was she thinking? She could be hurt! Less than a minute later when she pulled her hand back Daenerys felt undeniable relief. It was short lived. Arya dropped the ice carelessly and then passed the heated dagger to her other hand. To Daenerys’s horror she folded her arm, raising the blade toward her face, clearly intending to replace the ice. 

If she’d been frozen before, now was the opposite. She took off running, surprising herself with the speed she achieved. She got to Arya just before the dagger touched the swollen flesh around her eye. Gripping her wrist tightly to keep her from finishing what she started, her nails dug into Arya’s skin. “What are you doing!?” she yelled. 

For once Arya seemed sincerely unprepared for her presence. Her one functioning eye was wide as she looked down at Daenerys, who still refused to release her. “Daenerys,” she said as though that were an answer. 

Her arm relaxed, and Daenerys felt it safe enough to let her go. When she did, the dagger fall limp to her side. “What were you thinking? It would have burned you.” 

The corner of her mouth twitched, and Daenerys knew from experience she was trying not to smile. “Maester’s orders,” she said, raising the dagger in question so she could twirl it again.” 

“A Maester told you to burn your eye, to make things worse?” she verified roughly, unable to calm the pounding in her chest. 

She attached the dagger to her belt and then waved Daenerys toward their spot, the table. It was strange being there when people were still moving about, but she didn’t say so. “Are you hurt?” 

She pointed to her injury as she’d done indoors. “I’m fine. A lucky punch.”

Her heart broke for the other woman. “Someone punched you?” She was enraged. She wanted to find whoever it was and make them pay. 

Her feelings must have been obvious because Arya set a hand over hers and smiled. “We were training,” she explained, “and don’t worry, he’s hurting more than I at the moment.” Was it her imagination or did Arya look pleased as she said this? 

“Why were you intent on burning your face?” Daenerys asked. She had the urge to reach out and touch Arya’s wound, to feel the blackened skin for herself and confirm that it wasn’t too severe. 

“Maester’s orders,” she said again. Mercifully, this time she provided more information. “Sam said it would heal quicker if I alternated between cold and heat.”

“Really?” She’d never heard of such a thing, but it did clarify the reason for her actions. “It’s too dangerous,” she said. She was no Maester and yet she was certain of this. “You could be hurt.” 

Not for the first time Daenerys wished she could understand Arya’s limited expressions. There was something on her face she couldn’t identify, not overtly bad or good, but somewhere in the center. “If you know of another way to warm my eye, I’m listening.”

As the question settled, she was certain she wore a smirk similar to Arya’s. “As a matter of fact, I do.” 

It would have been relatively easy to reach across the table and press one of her warm hands to Arya’s face, but she chose a different path. She stood with confidence and went to Arya’s half of the table. There she made another bold choice, forgoing the empty space on the bench and deciding instead to straddle Arya’s lap. 

She definitely caught the other woman off-guard. “What are you doing?” 

Daenerys applied a gentle pressure to Arya’s black eye with the tips of her warm fingers. “In all your travels you must have heard of my dragonblood. It’s as warm as any fire, and safer too. 

Sitting with Arya, close enough to feel her breath on her face Daenerys wanted nothing more than to kiss her but it wasn’t about what she wanted. The skin around her eye felt squishy and as Daenerys moved to the underside Arya clenched her teeth and hissed. Without removing her fingers, Daenerys’s other hand brushed the opposite cheek, tracing the scar she wore. “Shh,” she purred. “Relax.” Arya’s good eye closed as she skimmed over her face with the gentlest of touches. Just as she requested Arya’s tension melted away. “That’s it.” 

She had no idea if it was purposeful or not, but Arya leaned back, creating space between her and Daenerys, however minimal. Daenerys wasn’t about to let that happen. She went with her, keeping contact with her eye while her left slipped into dark hair. With her palm flat against the back of Arya’s skull she began to gently steer her forward. Unable to resist this time and taking full advantage of the fact that Arya couldn’t see it coming, Daenerys dipped her mouth until their lips collided. Resisting the urge to close her own eyes at the sensation she watched closely as they shared their first kiss. It was a fraction of a second before Arya’s working eye snapped open and her lips parted to protest. Daenerys made use of this and pushed her tongue between them. It was slow and deliberate, both so she could savor it and allow Arya to adjust. 

When Arya began to kiss back Daenerys knew she’d achieved something meaningful. She held it as long as she could, before she leaned back, finally giving her space and allowing them both the opportunity to catch their breath. She’d returned to toying with Arya’s hair while she maintained contact with her eye. 

“Better?” Daenerys asked gently, pleased with the stunned expression on the Stark’s face. She was normally so composed, so closed off, she counted it as a victory to defeat her defenses. 

“Jon,” she said. “What about Jon?”

What about him? She didn’t desire Jon and she hadn’t so much as kissed him since the day she met Arya under the Weirwood. She’d tell Arya all of that later, for now she summarized. “Jon’s not the one I want,” she confessed. To make her point abundantly clear Daenerys lowered her mouth to Arya’s again. When Arya kissed back, Daenerys felt a sense of power that went far beyond being a Queen or commanding armies. In that moment, she felt as if the whole of the world belonged to her. 

R-C

She woke with a groan, immediately aware of her injuries. “Seven Hells,” she complained. 

In the tight confines of the ship’s cabin he was already close enough to touch her, but he stood anyway. “Welcome back.” 

She blinked hard several times while every lurch of the boat on the waves increased her discomfort. “What happened?” Before she’d finished asking, it was coming to her, King’s Landing, the fight with the guard, Jon. If he answered her she didn’t hear it. “You’re an idiot!” she said as she recalled seeing him running toward the Red Keep and certain death. 

“What did you say?”

She had no doubt he heard her just fine. “What were you thinking? You could have been killed.” 

“I was thinking you needed my help!” he replied forcefully. “I was thinking I wasn’t going to abandon you.” 

She didn’t need his help. If she hadn’t seen him, she would have escaped from King’s Landing to safety with minimal trouble. She was confident she could have found aid for her injuries before she bled to death. It was a foolish mistake to make, for Jon to risk his neck for her. It wasn’t what good husbands do, good fathers or kings. Even if everything he said was correct, he risked too much. What would become of Daenerys if he died? Who would help her raise their child if he wasted his life to rescue her? It was a poor choice. Jon was supposed to be the smart one. “You should have gone in the other direction,” she said taking a sip from the glass of water he provided. 

“I wasn’t going to leave you…”

She didn’t want his excuses. “You’re an idiot!” she told him again. He set the glass down and neither of them spoke for a time. “How bad is it?” she asked, peeking under the covers at the damage. 

“I did what I could,” he said, very clearly less than pleased with his abilities. “We’ll be at Dragonstone soon and Sam will take a proper look at you.” 

He was taking her to Dragonstone? No, that was unacceptable. She tried to sit, until she realized even if Jon allowed it, she wouldn’t be capable. “I’m not going there,” she said, feeling suddenly tired. 

“Yes, you are. You need to recover. We…” he stopped without finishing and Arya knew he had more to say. 

Knowing who was waiting for her at Dragonstone she couldn’t go, no matter how grave her injuries. It would only make things worse. She’d left for a reason. “You should have let me die,” she announced weakly. 

“Never,” he answered at once, with fierce determination. 

She wanted to argue but couldn’t. Not because she changed her mind but rather because every word spoken and heard stole from her limited strength. Jon helped her take a final drink before he adjusted the pillow under her head. “Rest,” he said kindly. “We’ll be there soon.”

She didn’t want to rest, she wanted to go, even if she had to swim back to the mainland. Despite her efforts she just couldn’t call upon the energy to resist. When her eyes became heavy again she gave in to it, allowing her mind to take her to paradise, to Daenerys. 

R-C

As always when they discussed her affair with Arya, she had Missandei’s full attention. “What was it like?” she asked. “Kissing her I mean. I’ve only ever been with men?”

Daenerys thought about it before she crafted a response. “Different, but good. Arya isn’t like other women. She’s not gentle or soft. In a way she’s more masculine than some of the men I’ve taken to bed.” She remembered the feel of Arya’s calloused hands roughly dragging across her skin and how she seemed to know exactly where to touch Daenerys to maximize her pleasure. “But, she’s a woman too and as such she knew my body better than any man ever could.” 

She knew Missandei had more questions, but she didn’t get to ask them. Grey Worm appeared in the doorway in his armor and bowed his head respectfully. “Your Grace.” 

When her Unsullied commander didn’t look at the woman he loved she knew whatever he’d come to tell her was grave. “What is it?”

“The King returns with his sister, there are injuries.”

She didn’t even get a chance to be happy that Arya and Jon had returned before the rest of his words reached her brain. Injuries? Which one of them was hurt? How badly? Her lighthearted exchange with Missandei was forgotten and Daenerys felt as though her heart had stopped beating in her chest all together. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: One more chapter to add to the list. I hope it lived up to expectations. Next, they’ll at least be in the same place at the same time. Daenerys turns to the Gods for help, we’ll get a flashback and the Queen makes an important decision while Arya recovers.


	9. Chapter 9

Motivated as she was, she wasn’t fast enough. By the time she reached Arya the door was closed, and Sam had already begun his exam. Jon and Davos were pacing in the hallway. She took note of Davos’s injury but didn’t address him. Her sole focus was Arya. “How bad is it?” she asked, not knowing how similar the question was to one her lover asked Jon on the ship. 

Her husband hugged her, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. “She’s strong,” he said privately, for just her. “She’ll be okay.” Daenerys understood then, her survival wasn’t guaranteed. If she were sure to live, Jon would tell her so. He didn’t, which could only mean one thing, he didn’t know. 

“How did this happen?” she asked, talking into his chest. “You were meant to find her, to save her.” 

“I tried,” Jon swore, sounding just as broken as she was. “I was too slow, by the time we got to King’s Landing the guards had already sealed the gates. They were looking for her.” 

“How did you escape?” Tyrion asked from nearby. She hadn’t realized he arrived. 

“Same way I got you in to speak to your brother,” Davos explained. “Arya was already wounded.”

“What happened to you?” The Hand asked the Onion Knight 

Jon answered for him. “I rushed toward the keep, to try and save Arya. One of the guards recognized me from our visit and called for others. I was going to be captured.” 

She leaned back so she could look up into his eyes. “Are you hurt?” 

He shook his head before the words came. “Davos saved my life. Arya too. If they hadn’t come, I’d be in the dungeon or dead by now.”

“What of Ellaria?” Missandei questioned. Daenerys hadn’t heard her approach either. 

“Arya didn’t say. She was barely conscious on the trip back. I sewed up her wounds as best I could, but she lost a lot of blood, too much.”

Daenerys slapped his chest roughly. “Don’t say that. She’ll make it. She has to.” With that, she leaned back into his hold, feeling his strong arms tighten around her. They worried together, likely closer in that moment than they had been at any other time as husband and wife. 

It was an eternity before the door opened. When it finally did Daenerys was first. “Is she alright?” she demanded of the frightful Maester. 

Sam panicked, looking to Jon for aid. “It’s alright Sam,” he assured his friend, “just tell us how she’s doing.” 

“She’s alive,” he confirmed. Daenerys felt as though a stone had been lifted off her chest. “The damage was severe,” he acknowledged. “By all rights, she should be dead, but she’s not.” 

“She’s strong,” she and Jon said together. 

“Will she survive?” Davos asked, giving voice to a fear Daenerys didn’t dare. 

Sam’s face said more than his mouth ever would. He looked at Jon with sadness. “I don’t know. I’m surprised she’s alive even now. Either wound on their own wouldn’t be fatal but together they might be too much.”

“Don’t say that!” Daenerys snapped. She refused to consider the possibility that Arya wouldn’t make it and she wouldn’t allow anyone else to either. 

Missandei was beside her then, putting an arm around her. She went to her gladly, still somehow managing not to cry. Jon repaired the damage she’d done. “I’m sure you did all you could.”

“I…I’m not saying s…she’ll die,” he made clear, “I jus…just can’t say she’ll live.” Listening to him stammer she knew she’d offended him again. She’d already harmed him – before she ever met him – by murdering his father and brother. It wasn’t his fault Arya was hurt now. 

“Is she awake?” Tyrion asked. 

“Not yet,” Sam said, sounding disappointed to have such negative news to pass along. “If she survives the night, she has a chance.” 

“Can we go in?”

When Sam agreed, Jon kindly held back the others and allowed Missandei and Daenerys in first. She could tell from his eyes that he wanted to see Arya as badly as she did but restrained himself for her. Although there was a single chair next to the bed, Daenerys didn’t bother with it. When she saw Arya lying there, her resolve nearly broke. Gold Cloak armor and fragments of bloodstained cloth were strewn about, and Daenerys could tell from her bare shoulders and upper chest that Arya was topless under the covers. She rushed in and picked up her limp hand. The skin was spotted with sweat, yet she felt colder than usual. Her face was pale, her gorgeous eyes closed. She thought of Drogo, she couldn’t go through this again. 

She heard footsteps behind her but paid them no mind. “Let’s give them a minute alone,” Jon suggested. 

Before she left Missandei stopped over her right shoulder. “Arya needs you to be strong now,” she said in High Valyrian. “I know you can, because I’ve never known anyone stronger than you.” Daenerys appreciated the sentiment, but she had her doubts. 

When the last of the onlookers was gone, she felt the dam break. “Please don’t leave me,” she begged, bringing Arya’s lifeless hand to her lips and kissing it. 

R-C

For three days, Sansa rarely left Bran’s side. In that time, nothing changed. She’d closed his eyes with a gentle swipe of her thumb, manually pulling down his lids. She told herself she’d done it in case he needed rest but in truth it had been as much for her as him. She found it terribly disconcerting to stare into his big vacant eyes. With them closed it was easier to believe he was just sleeping even though she knew he wasn’t. 

Matters of governing were openly postponed, upsetting many of the Lords who still took up residence in her home. She ignored their complaints, stating her brother’s welfare was her main priority. That being said, she did what she could to ensure the needs of others were met. She had documents brought with every meal for her to review and when an issue couldn’t wait, she held court next to Bran’s bed. When this happened, Sansa insisted that no matter how upset a third party, they speak in only whispers. 

She was at the table, reviewing the amount of dragonglass delivered in the last shipment, entirely unprepared. All the sudden, without warning, Bran screamed, sounding more like a distressed animal than a person. In her hurry to check on him the papers fell to the floor. “Bran! Bran can you hear me?”

“They’re breaking it,” he said, his eyes open again and just as empty as they had been upon his return. 

“Who’s breaking it?” Sansa asked. When they answer didn’t come, she tried again. “What are they breaking? Bran, what are they breaking?”

“The Wall. They’re going to put a hole in the Wall. I can see it.” His answer was delivered with a stillness that chilled her. He didn’t sound worried or panicked, both feelings that were bubbling inside her. He spoke the words with no emotion, random facts that meant little to him. 

She didn’t need to ask who he meant, she knew in an instant. The White Walkers were nearing the Wall. The war Jon promised had come. “What about the Night’s Watch?” she asked. Jon had left the surviving members on the Wall, along with a large percentage of the Wildlings loyal to him. It had been his hope they’d be able to repel the first wave and warn Winterfell before the attack came. Listening to Bran now, she feared he overestimated their abilities. 

“I can see the fighting,” Bran said after a period of nothing. “I can see all their lives, all they were, all they could be, all they won’t be.”

“What do we do?” she pressed him. She was a capable woman, but this business with the Undead was beyond her. She didn’t know the first thing about Wights, or White Walkers or any of that. When it came to such matters she had to rely on Bran and Jon, trusting in their judgements. 

“Send a raven. Send all the ravens we have. Bring the stores inside the gates and shut them tight. Line the walls with archers and give everyone old enough a sword. They’re coming!”

R-C

Cersei Lannister stood on the shore of Dragonstone with an army at her back. In the water, as far as Daenerys’s eye could see were ships with Lion sails, carrying even more troops to the battle. The war had found them and that couldn’t be avoided. So many were going to die for her. It was like an incurable knot in her stomach. 

After a moment of doubt, she knew what she had to do, she needed to remove the head from the Lion and scatter the rest. She left her post on the wall and went down into the yard below. Drogon was waiting like he somehow sensed she needed him. This was it. She’d kill Cersei and the Iron Throne would be hers, just as it was meant to be. 

She felt no fear as Drogon flapped his strong wings and lifted her up amongst the clouds. When the arrows came they bounced off his thick scales like they were merely paper. Not even the bolts fired by the scorpion scared her as she said the word that had been on the tip of her tongue. “Dracarys.”

Her ‘son’ didn’t hesitate, spitting fire, scorching sand, boiling water and burning men. After a single pass her violet eyes narrowed in on the usurper Queen and she guided him around one final time. On horseback, she didn’t try to flee, she didn’t order her troops to protect her, Cersei only looked up just as Daenerys peered down around Drogon’s neck. As the flames left his throat her vision blurred for a moment. By the time it cleared everything was different. Gone were the ships on the horizon, and the armies on the beach. Gone was Cersei Lannister and her smug smirk. All Daenerys saw was Arya, standing beneath her. She tried to stop it, to prevent the fire from hitting her but it was too late. The damage was done. The last thing she remembered was hearing herself scream while she watched the skin melt from Arya’s bones and then the dream, the nightmare was over. 

She woke with a start, nearly bucking right out of the chair she was in. Not even the presence of Arya’s hand in hers could reassure her. Sweat soaked her brow and her heart threatened to break its way free from her ribs. “Arya!” she gasped. 

“Are you alright,” Jon asked her softly, taking care to mind his sleeping sister. 

Slowly reality returned to her and the horrors of the nightmare faded. No, she wasn’t, but it wouldn’t do him any good to say so. In the end she settled for a half-truth, one she hoped wasn’t an outright lie. “I’ll be okay.” While trying to calm her breathing, she looked at Arya and saw no change since she first entered, not for the worse or the better. “How long was I asleep?”

Jon pushed off the wall and made the short walk to her. “I’ve been here more than an hour.” 

“Any change?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from her inquiry. 

“Not yet.” He squatted down next to her chair and together they both looked at the woman they loved. It was a different love, each in their own way, but undeniable all the same. “Do you want to talk?”

She wasn’t sure to be honest. Was it fair to share her burdens with him when he already had so many of his own? Could she survive if she didn’t tell someone? In the end, the weakness in her prevailed and she admitted her fears. “She’s going to hate me. Even if she wakes up, she’s going to hate me.” 

Jon responded by taking her hand and pulling her up. He hugged her as he’d done in the hallway. “Arya could never hate you,” he promised, and more than anything she wanted to believe him. 

Although, she wanted to be, she wasn’t blessed with his conviction. She’d married a man and forced the woman she loved away. Maybe she hadn’t ordered her to leave, but through her actions Daenerys had all but packed Arya’s bags. Now after months apart, she dragged her back so a God she didn’t believe in would grant her a child that wouldn’t otherwise come. If Daenerys were in her place, she’d hate her too. “You don’t understand,” she objected. “I love her. I told her I loved her and then I married you.” She looked at the broken woman on the bed. “You don’t know what it’s like, knowing that the person you love most despises you and rightly so. She could die thinking I don’t care. She was in King’s Landing for me. If she doesn’t wake, I’ll never forgive myself.” 

She hadn’t meant to, but once she started she couldn’t stop and the words flooded out. Jon said nothing, he only listened, holding her against him. When he was positive she was finished he ended the silence that had filled the room. “I do know what it’s like,” he contended, “I know far better than you think.” 

She thought nothing could take her focus off Arya but that did. She couldn’t help it, she looked up at Jon and saw long buried anguish. He really did understand. How could that be? “But…”

“Sit down,” he said releasing her and nudging her toward the room’s only chair. “I’ll get some water to clean your face and then I’ll tell you about Ygritte.”

R-C

Three Months Before the Wedding

Regardless of her efforts, the sleep wouldn’t come. It had been a long trying day and a strenuous night. Every blink felt like it was a precursor to rest and yet it never was. Hovering on the edge of exhaustion she took comfort from the presence next to her. Arya Stark, the woman called the ‘Wild Wolf’ behind her back was every bit as dangerous and deadly as advertised but she was also thoughtful and sweet. 

Hours earlier Arya surprised her before dinner, leaving a note on her pillow for Daenerys to find. She’d gone upstairs to change her clothes and discovered it waiting for her. 

Find Me! It challenged. 

While she stood holding the corner of a page, clearly torn from a book of some kind, Missandei arrived with tea. She forgot all about her desire to change from her dress and gripped her friend’s hand in hers as she let the paper go. “Come on, I can drink it on the way.” 

“The way where?” Missandei asked as she tried to keep up. After losing a shoe, Daenerys stopped to allow her to retrieve it but only when she had reached the bannister, providing a good view of the room below. She searched the clusters of people for Arya and came away disappointed. 

Almost the whole of the castle had been searched and Daenerys had begun to think that maybe she’d have to check outside as well. If it wasn’t the crypt, it had to be the dungeons. The cells were empty as they had no prisoners, or at least they should have been. That’s why it was such a surprise to find Arya lying on the stone floor, sprawled out on her back. Daenerys froze at the bottom of the staircase and watched as the assassin twirled a dagger on her palm. 

Missandei who was exactly two steps above her leaned close and whispered, “What is it?”

“A good hiding place,” Arya answered from the cage, making it known she’d heard. 

“It’s nearly the last place I have left to check,” Daenerys admitted feebly. 

“Exactly why it was a good choice. When you need to hide, think as those hunting you do. Where would they expect you to go, and where would they consider less likely?”

Missandei looked around the rarely used room and went to the door of Arya’s cell. She pulled and found the iron unforgiving. “It’s locked.”

“It is now,” Arya commented casually, still lying flat.

“How did you lock the door without the key?” Missandei wondered. 

“Unless she had the key?” Daenerys supplied, going to and testing the door herself. 

“I do not,” Arya assured her, finally sitting up. 

“Then how did you…”

“I’ll show you sometime,” she promised before standing. She dusted the dirt from her black pants and royal blue shirt. Daenerys took notice. They appeared new. Arya looked stunning. “For now,” she began, “would you join me for dinner?”

Certain she heard wrong, Daenerys looked over her shoulder at her advisor, who was doing a poor job of pretending not to overhear. “Arya,” she said, looking back at the woman in the cell. She was fiddling with the lock and to Daenerys’s amazement the door swung open after only a few seconds. “We have dinner together every night.” 

Seeing Arya blush was a rare occurrence. She looked nervous as she clarified. “I don’t mean at the same table, I mean just us.” A wave of nerves struck her that stilled her tongue and Arya misunderstood, assuming further explanation was required. “Just you and me, I mean.” 

“I’d love to,” Daenerys said, very aware of her advisor’s presence. 

“Great,” she said, her unease vanishing. She snatched Daenerys’s hand and practically dragged her up the stairs. “Don’t worry,” she yelled behind them, “I’ll return her before she’s needed.” 

With Arya’s help they managed to avoid the guards, the staff and even Tyrion who was very obviously looking for her. In the days that followed, she’d have to work hard to justify Arya’s motivations to Missandei without exposing the true nature of their relationship. In the end it wasn’t a lie exactly, but it definitely wasn’t the whole truth either. She told Missandei that Arya needed her assistance to craft Jon’s medallion and wanted it done in secret. Both things were true, but it wasn’t why she stole her away for a picnic nearly a mile outside Winterfell. 

After the meal they quickly got lost in one another. Under other circumstances it wouldn’t have been appealing to have wandering hands moving up under her dress while snow fell around them. She typically favored being fully undressed with her companions. If she weren’t so entranced she might have been bothered by the cold, or the firmness of the ground under them. As it was, all she thought of was Arya. Away from the prying eyes and ears of the castle she was free to scream loudly as Arya knelt behind her, pushing three of her fingers into Daenerys’s core. It had been a long time since she’d been taken so completely, and she rarely remembered enjoying it as thoroughly. 

When they were finished, they’d returned to the warmth of the building but had yet to part ways. Rather than release her to her chambers Arya guided her to a rarely used oversized closet for a repeat performance. The second time was unlike the first. It was tender and dare she say romantic. Arya laid her across a table and explored every part of her slowly. It had been fantastic. Now cuddled up on the floor just under that same table, she couldn’t sleep. 

Her affections for Arya were growing quickly, there was no denying that, but Daenerys had managed to convince herself it wasn’t serious. They were just enjoying each other’s company until she returned to Dragonstone, right? She told herself that’s what she wanted, all she wanted, but perhaps that was no longer the case. She hadn’t asked for Arya’s opinion. The assassin didn’t seem like the type to enjoy in-depth conversations about feelings but maybe she wasn’t the only one who felt this way. She could hope. 

“Do you feel it too?” she asked in a whisper as she traced a particularly wide scar around the curve of Arya’s left shoulder. Unlike the majority of the others that were thin and very obviously from swordplay gone awry Daenerys had to wonder about this one. It was longer, looked deeper and was almost three times the width of most she’d seen on Arya’s body. “What happened?” she wondered. 

Her question pulled her lover from sleep and she wiggled against Daenerys, before she hummed. “Hm? Did you say something?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, kissing the shoulder she’d been studying. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

One grey eye opened and then the other. Her black eye had long since healed but Daenerys couldn’t help but picture it every now and again when she got lost in memories. “I’m awake. Now what did you say?”

Not willing to confess the first of her thoughts, she jumped right to the second. “How did you get this scar?” she asked, tracing it again to identify which one she meant. 

“An axe,” she explained as if it were nothing unusual. She rolled onto her back and gave the Queen a slight, but sincere smile. “I was to give the Gift to a pompous prick from Asshai, he knew I was coming and hired the best sell-swords he could to protect him, but only one of each. He rented the son of a former First Sword of Braavos, a tower of a man who favored a whip and a woman who could wield an axe in each hand better than any other I’ve seen.”

With proof Arya survived in her arms she still didn’t like thinking of her in danger. “Did you defeat them?”

Her face shined with pride, even as it was tainted by sleep. “Of course, the Many Faced God will not be denied.”

“Teach me one of your prayers,” Daenerys requested without considering how the request might sound. 

More awake now, she propped herself up on an elbow and observed Daenerys closely. “Why? Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

“Yes,” she admitted quietly, although she neglected to explain the reason why sleep escaped her tonight. 

That was all that it took to get Arya to agree. Without further comment she closed her eyes and folded her hands together. Daenerys watched with rapt attention. “I do bad things for good reasons,” she began. “It is who I am, who I need to be. The world needs darkness like mine, so others can live in the light. For if I did not kill the few, how many more would suffer? I do not ask for forgiveness, I know I’m not worthy of it, but at my end, grant me peace.” 

When she was finished Daenerys didn’t have words. It bothered her that Arya considered herself undeserving of absolution, but she didn’t challenge her view. Grant her peace? Was that all Arya expected at the completion of her life? She didn’t think she’d see her family again, her father, her mother, her brothers, didn’t think herself worthy of being reunited? There would be time later for Daenerys to correct her. Unable to speak she put her mouth to better use and kissed her lips. After, she snuggled in under Arya’s arm and the sleep came easy. 

R-C

She was in the center of a long hallway with two choices before her. She had no idea how she’d come to be there, but she could sense it was important. In one direction the Many Faced God, her patron lurked. She couldn’t see Him but didn’t doubt He was there. In her bones she just knew He waited in the shadow, ready to snatch her if she ventured too close. The ground seemed to tilt in His direction, as though fate were trying to guide her. Opposite Him she heard Daenerys’s cries. The path to her was longer and more difficult, lined with obstacles and traps. Before she could choose she was overcome with memories. For one endless second, she stood there, reliving every moment she spent with Daenerys, the good and the bad. She remembered the passion and the hurt, the love and the rejection. It ended when she knew with certainty why she’d left Winterfell and Daenerys. She could see her with Jon, see him holding her as she rubbed her growing belly. The pain she felt nearly destroyed her. Breathing became difficult. Her legs no longer held her, and she dropped with force. 

“Choose!” a hollow voice commanded, from somewhere high above. The tightness in her chest grew and she clawed at it to try and release the pressure. “Choose!” the voice insisted, louder and angrier than the last time. With little in the way of options, Arya did. Unable to find her footing, she crawled. 

R-C

She had doubts if she was doing it properly. On her knees, at Arya’s bedside she had her hands folded and her eyes closed. She worked feverishly to clear her mind of all thoughts except Arya. “There’s good in her. I’ve seen it and I know you have too. She thinks she’s all darkness, that she can’t be redeemed. She’s wrong. Please, let her wake up so I can show her she’s wrong. Even if she hates me, please let her be okay.” 

“Um…I’m sorry,” Samwell said as he came to check on his patient, only to find the Dragon Queen on the floor. “I can come… I’ll come back.” 

Daenerys sprung up before he could go. “No Sam,” she countered. “Stay please.”

She stepped back to give him room to work, every extra foot between her and Arya adding to her stress. She slept sitting in the chair, too tormented by nightmares to get much relief. If it hadn’t been for meals and snacks brought by Missandei and Jon, she would have wasted away to nothing. Her kingdom likely would have descended into chaos if not for Tyrion maintaining order. She knew she should go, take a bath, change her clothes and check on things, but she just couldn’t stomach leaving her. When they were alone, she peeled back the covers and saw for herself the damage done. She was no expert on such things, but it looked bad, even with the dark thread sealing the opening.

“How is she?” Daenerys asked as kindly as she could manage. She’d mistreated the Tarly greatly and didn’t want to continue. 

“Her pulse is stronger,” he said after lifting two of his fingers from the side of her neck. Like most of her flesh, the area had markings, a very certain burn scar, as though someone had tried to force Arya’s head into a fire. 

“Her color is also returning,” Daenerys noted. 

Sam looked up from the note he was writing. “It is?” She nodded in confirmation and he returned to his work. “That’s also good, very good. It means she’s healing.”

When he was through he closed the book, intent on making a quick exit. “I’m sorry Maester Tarly,” she said. 

He stood unmoving for a time before he turned. “F…for what your Grace?”

She should have apologized for not listening to Tyrion’s wise counsel, for burning his family when now she could agree only the father really needed to die. She should have apologized for the situation the kind man found himself in. She knew Jon considered him a brother, and now Sam’s brother was wed to his family murderer. As they struggled to get pregnant Daenerys hadn’t considered his feelings, how difficult it must be for him, tending to her after all she’d done. That’s what she should have said, but she didn’t. “It was wrong of me to get upset with you. Arya is Jon’s sister and I was concerned for her. I was frightened and hurt but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I apologize.”

The reply was delayed by the several seconds it took for him to close his mouth and gather his thoughts. He hadn’t been expecting an apology. “I…that… I understand. I’m Jon’s brother too, in a way, I want Arya to heal.”

“You’ve done good work. I fear if not for you Arya would already be lost to us all. I’m in your debt Sam, more than you will ever know.”

Alone with Arya again she returned to her seat and took her hand, tracing the scar between her fingers, one of the first she saw. Helpless was not a state Daenerys found herself in often. It was infuriating. There had to be something she could do. She was a Queen for fuck sakes. She had dragons and armies and fleets. “You’ve already done enough,” a rude voice told her in the privacy of her mind. As she recalled all the wrongs Arya suffered because of her, she knew the mean voice was accurate, but it also gave her an idea. She knew what she could do to help Arya, to better things. 

R-C

Jon was in his private chambers, a long sword laid over his lap, he was busy sharpening its edge. Daenerys went to him, using the heel of her foot to kick the door closed behind her. He looked up when he heard her, and she saw the surprise. His lips parted, likely to ask about Arya but Daenerys was faster. She pushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders and let it slip down her body. Stepping out, she arrived in front of him. “What are you…”

She didn’t want to talk. They could talk after. Now, she just wanted to do what she could for Arya and this was it. She could conceive the child that would be her heir, she could have her one final night with Jon. She could do it now, while Arya was asleep so that by the time she woke Daenerys could tell her truthfully, she’d never lay with her brother again. 

Jon returned the blade into its sheath and she was on him before he could stand. He tried to question her again, but her mouth had already taken his. Her hands were rough and hurried as she pulled at his shirt. She should have known better, known Jon better. He was too much of gentleman, too concerned with manners and her feelings to simply go along. His hands grabbed her wrists and held them high in the air. “Daenerys what are you doing?”

“Arya’s back,” she stated in clarification. 

“I know. Is she awake?”

She shook her head. “Arya’s back so we can do this now.”

Jon’s expression turned from confused to sad. “Dany,” he said, still the only person to call her that. “We don’t have to do this now. There will be time later. I haven’t even told Arya what Melisandre said yet. She doesn’t know. Go, be with her.” 

No! She couldn’t do anything for Arya in the Maester’s room. All she could do is sit and worry and pray and none of that was helping. This though, this was different. With Jon she could do what they set out to do, what they were married to do, and she could end a source of Arya’s trouble. Maybe then, she allowed herself to dream, Arya might choose to stay once she had recovered. She yanked her hands free. “No!” she said, finally voicing her wild thoughts. “When Arya wakes up, I want us to be able to tell her we’re finished. That she won’t have to see us together this way. If she doesn’t yet know of the Priestess’s idea, she never needs to.”

“Daenerys…” he tried. 

“Please Jon,” she pleaded, returning to his shirt. “Please.” His hands replaced hers and he began to pull it up over his head. While he did Daenerys lifted herself up slightly, so she could gain access to his pants. 

R-C

She was naked and reaching for her dress when the door opened. Tyrion had his head down, looking at a scroll, oblivious to her. “Jon, have you see your wif…” His eyes lifted, saw her and immediately dropped again, this time lower than the page he was holding. “Daenerys.” 

She turned her back on him to dress, while Jon did what he could to minimize the damage. “Was there something you needed Lord Tyrion?”

“I bring news,” he said, refusing to look up even after she had covered herself. Jon walked to him, wearing only pants and took the document. “Sansa sends word, Bran is back at Winterfell and the Night King is nearing the Wall. The Night’s Watch won’t be able to hold, if they haven’t already fallen.” 

“We’ll be done in a moment,” Jon said. “Summon the others. We need to talk.” 

Tyrion nodded to confirm he’d heard but didn’t move. She understood before her husband did. “What else is there?”

He looked at Daenerys for the first time since spying her nude. “My brother is here.”

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Now we’re getting to the good stuff. Let me know what you think. Did you like the way Daenerys tried to do right by Arya? The next chapter will have the King Slayer, Arya waking up and more than a little tension. 
> 
> Thanks,  
> RC


	10. Chapter 10

She’d not only come to trust Tyrion but also rely on him. The fact that he was a Lannister hadn’t been an issue for quite some time. He wasn’t defined by his family anymore than she was hers. She’d given him the chance to prove he was different and he made the most of it. She would likely have remained in Essos if not for him. Still, she questioned his sanity when he told her his brother had arrived alone, willingly given up his weapons and asked for an audience. Daenerys had assumed the next time she’d seen Jaime Lannister would be across a battlefield or perhaps from atop Drogon’s back. 

He looked perfectly at ease when they entered. He sat in a lone chair, facing the throne, surrounded by killers. The Dothraki with their arakhs and the Unsullied with their spears didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. His golden hand rested in his lap, covered by his real one. “He’s not wearing a Lannister sigil,” Jon noticed as he walked beside her. They went to stand in front of him but didn’t sit. This wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation. She checked his clothes and confirmed it to be true, even the breastplate he wore was unmarked steel and nothing more.

Seeing him, in her family home, it took all of her limited restraint to resist ordering him killed instantly. Her father may have been a brutal man, deserving of everything that happened to him, but it didn’t mean she wanted to make nice with the man who not only stabbed him in the back, but also took his head afterward. 

“Jaime ‘the King Slayer’ Lannister, to what do I owe the pleasure.” 

His handsome face showed a tiny flicker of recognition at the sound of his famous moniker. From the corner of her eye she watched Tyrion nod, urging him to speak. He did. “I came to offer my assistance against whatever that…” he paused, “thing was you brought to King’s Landing.” 

“We haven’t even begun to march North yet,” Jon informed him. “You’re early.” 

He gave Jon a smile as fake as his golden hand. “We? Oh yes, I heard congratulations were in order. I’m sorry I missed it. I’m sure you just misplaced my invitation.” 

With the smell of Jon still on her skin, Daenerys wasn’t in the mood for this. She should be upstairs checking on Arya not jousting verbally with the man pledged to her greatest enemy. “Perhaps the raven dropped dead,” she proposed, “or I had it killed.” 

He held up both of his hands. “Easy now, I am only here to help.” 

Since she entered, many others had too. Protectors, friends, and even a few curious observers all watched in silence. Word had obviously spread throughout the castle about their guest. Missandei was next to Grey Worm, Jorah stood less than a foot behind Jaime’s chair, and even the Greyjoys were in attendance. Off to the left Varys stood next to Melisandre, while Davos lingered behind the married couple, as always ready to protect Jon. 

 

“If you truly wanted to help, you wouldn’t be here alone. Where are your armies?” Daenerys demanded to know. “Where are the soldiers your sister promised?”

He looked to Tyrion again and this time his eyes didn’t shift back. “They aren’t coming.”

Daenerys wasn’t surprised. In her mind it had always been a toss of a coin, whether or not Cersei would honor her word. Jon expected more. “What do you mean they aren’t coming? I thought we’d made an arrangement.” 

He was aware of the crowd and clearly playing to impress them. “She changed her mind,” he stated simply as though that were all there was to tell. He looked to Jon. “You know how women can be.” 

His cocky smirk renewed Daenerys’s interest for his severed head. Well if that’s how it was going to be, two could play this game. “Then why are you here?” Daenerys asked in the same tone. “I was told you never strayed too far from your sister or her bed.”

The smile vanished, and his eyes bounced to hers. “Tyrion was right,” he said. “If those things come South we’re all fucked.” 

“So that’s it,” Jon pressed. “You’re just going to switch sides?” 

Daenerys could feel the tension rolling off each of them. There was too much hostility, too much bad blood to simply take him at his word. 

“As far as I’m concerned the only sides that matter right now are the living and the dead.” 

“He’s right,” Tyrion agreed, speaking quick before anyone else had the chance. “We all agree we need every capable man for the war ahead and Jaime despite of his poor taste in women is a skilled soldier.” 

“He can’t be trusted,” Jon protested. 

“I’m here, aren’t I? What do you want another oath?”

“You gave my father an oath, didn’t you?” Daenerys fired back. 

“Your father…” he stopped, visibly unsure of how to tackle such a volatile issue. 

She wasn’t interested in his words. Truthfully, she just wanted him to squirm. “Was an evil man by all accounts,” she admitted, “Lady Olenna was different. What happened to her?”

“She chose her friends poorly,” he remarked sarcastically. Daenerys gave a disapproving look and all at once her will was done. Jorah put his sword to one side of Jaime’s neck, while a Dothrak pressed his arakh into the other. An Unsullied spear was rammed against his ribs. 

“Answer her damn it,” Tyrion demanded, clearly concerned he was going to end up like the Tarlys. 

“I gave her poison,” he admitted. The simple act of speaking caused his throat to bob against steel, creating a paper-thin cut. Daenerys motioned again, and the weapons were retracted. With the fingers of his real hand he dabbed the blood. “It was cleaner and faster than anything Cersei had planned for her.” 

Daenerys had no trouble believing that. “And what of Ellaria Sand?”

The answer came, but not from the source Daenerys expected. “She’s dead,” Arya said, hobbling into the room. Daenerys almost didn’t believe what she was seeing. Arya looked as beautiful as ever, just as she had when Daenerys left her resting in bed. The only difference was that she was now wearing a sleeveless shirt that revealed the thick cluster of bandages around one arm. Her uninjured one was folded against her stomach, protecting the worst of the damage. “Arya!” she gasped. She was awake. 

Jon rushed to his sister and arrived about the same time Sam did from the opposite direction. “I tried to stop her,” he announced between panting breaths. 

Jon smiled, helping to support his sister. “No one can keep Arya still.” Daenerys chuckled. Wasn’t that the truth. As she watched Jon help her limp closer Daenerys wanted to go to her. Her fingers itched to touch her, to verify she was in fact alright. 

For a moment she’d forgotten all about the King Slayer. He’d apparently had his fill of the interruption. “She’s not dead,” he countered. “She’s in the dungeons at King’s Landing.”

At Missandei’s insistence Grey Worm got another chair and presented it for Arya to sit. Upon seeing it she resisted, pushing off Jon’s arm and standing under her own power. “She’s dead!” she said again, looking nowhere but Jaime. 

“How do you know that?” Jon asked gently. 

Whatever Daenerys thought the answer might be, it wasn’t what came. “Because I snapped her fucking neck!”

Lannister or not she doubted Jaime was a talented enough liar to feign the surprise she saw. Gasps echoed from all sides and Daenerys had to scramble to try and make sense of things. Everyone dealt with the revelation differently. Sam, who was still trailing Arya looked ill, Missandei sad, Yara disappointed. Daenerys was too confused to feel anything else. Why would Arya kill one of her allies, it didn’t make any sense? She risked her life and nearly died trying to get inside the Red Keep. 

“Why would you…” Jon began to ask, speaking for the whole room. 

“Cersei had her and Tyene locked in the dungeons,” she said, closing her eyes tightly and grinding her teeth. Just speaking was stealing her energy. “She chained them to different walls and then poisoned Tyene,” she explained, “Ellaria went mad.”

Tyrion looked to Jaime for confirmation. “Is this true?”

“She killed Myrcella,” he justified. 

“She was already gone by the time I got there,” Arya continued, leaning on the chair to keep from falling. “She’d been watching her daughter rot for Gods knows how long. The guards said they’d been forcing her to eat to keep her alive and extend her suffering. She’d earned the mercy of the Gift.”

While she spoke Jaime’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed to realize something. “It was you,” he said to Arya. “You’re the girl who snuck into the keep.”

Suddenly the King Slayer and his reasons didn’t matter so much. “Tyrion, take your brother outside and keep him company while we talk.” Without being asked Jorah and a handful of Unsullied went also. 

Although she tried she couldn’t wait until he was gone to fret over Arya. “Sit,” she instructed, taking a step closer. 

“I’m fine,” she lied. The separation between the words and the blooming spot of red on the front of her shirt stole power from her argument. 

“Sit down Arya,” Jon insisted. “You shouldn’t be up at all.” 

“I said I’m fine.”

While she refused Jon’s instruction, Daenerys couldn’t take her eyes off the bloodstain that was still growing. “Damn it Arya, your bleeding. Sit down!” she yelled. She didn’t mean to get so upset, but she couldn’t just stand by and let the siblings chat while her injury got worse. She’d only been awake a few minutes. 

When Arya looked at her, she saw none of the love and admiration she was used to. “As you wish, your Grace,” she said through her teeth, collapsing into the chair. Daenerys instantly felt cold. It reminded her of the way Arya said her title that first night, with thinly veiled contempt and disgust. She wanted to cry but there were far too many witnesses for that. 

R-C

In all the years she ruled over people, as a Khaleesi wandering the Dothraki Sea, then the Breaker of Chains in Meereen or now in Westeros, she never hated her duties more than she did then. Everyone wanted to talk, to ask her what she intended to do, to provide their opinions and all she wanted was to be with Arya. 

While Sam was carefully repairing her torn stitches, Arya sat in the chair, her head resting on the high rim of the back. She was staring straight up at the ceiling doing a wonderful job of pretending a needle wasn’t being pushed through her skin. “What do you want to do with him?” Jon asked, meaning the Lannister. 

“He could help us.” 

“He could, but I’m not sure we can trust him.” 

She hadn’t thought Arya was paying them any mind until she shared her views, without looking away from the ceiling. “Fuck trust, he can swing a sword.” She paused while Sam finished and then continued as she adjusted her bloody shirt to cover the wreckage. “Besides, he’d make a valuable hostage when this is done.” 

Listening to Arya’s cold detachment she considered how much she wouldn’t like to be the King Slayer. Then it occurred to her that Arya’s feelings for her were likely just as ugly as those she held for Jaime.

Sam was packing up his tools when Yara and Theon made their way over to Arya’s seat. “That sounds like the woman I remember. The Hero of the Iron Islands, I didn’t think I was going to get to see you this visit.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “You know me, I go where the fun is.” She stuck her leg out and kicked Theon. “I see your broken nose healed okay.”

He reached up, tracing the bump Daenerys hadn’t noticed. “Yeah it’s not so bad. I’m glad you’re awake.” 

 

Daenerys felt a surge of jealousy. Why couldn’t Arya talk to her that way anymore? She knew the answer of course. Her thoughts were reinforced by the memories of the previous hours with Jon. It made the knot in her stomach worse. 

Daenerys intended to go and check on her but was stopped by Grey Worm. Missandei’s lover wanted to know if he should kill the visiting Lannister. With one ear still on Arya she told the commander she hadn’t made her decision. 

“Lady Reaper,” she said to Yara, ducking her head in jest. “You’re looking well.” 

Yara leaned closer to Daenerys’s lover. “Oh, you noticed that, did you? Does that mean you changed your mind and decided you want to take me up on my offer?” All of the other conversations happening around her melted away. Yara had made Arya an offer? What sort of offer? 

“No,” Arya answered without even the pretense of consideration. This piqued Daenerys’s curiosity even more. Arya only spoke like that when she was certain of her decision. 

Yara was undeterred. She took a seat on the arm of Arya’s chair. She reached out as if to stroke her face. “No, you won’t lead my army or no you won’t be my Queen?” 

Daenerys was furious. Yara asked Arya to be Queen? Did that mean she and… She couldn’t even think it. Looking at them now, interacting so naturally it wasn’t all that hard to imagine, unfortunately. Her blood boiled, and she fully intended to do something. Arya’s was hers, even if things were complicated between them. Jon must have overheard too, because he reached out and grabbed her arm before she could take her first step. 

Arya knocked Yara’s hand away and answered, giving Daenerys a small measure of peace, but not much. “Both.” It was entirely unfair for her to be jealous. She’d just had sex with her husband. She and Arya were no longer together, despite her best efforts, and she was free to spend her time with whomever she chose. Knowing so wasn’t enough to stop the putrid sensation that started in her chest and spread out to fill every corner of her body. Jon was trying to talk to her when she yanked her arm free. “Excuse me a moment.” 

This time she at least made it halfway to where Arya waited. Halfway didn’t prove to be close enough however. Tyrion picked that moment to reappear, popping up between Daenerys and the only person she wanted to hear speak. “What should I do with him?” 

Before she could tell him to wait Arya rose from the chair and said a quick goodbye to the Greyjoy siblings. She watched over Tyrion’s head as she came closer. For an instant she thought maybe she was coming to see her, but she walked by. “Arya,” she called, “wait!”

“You’re clearly busy,” she said, referring to the growing line of people who wanted her attention, “I’ll leave you to your affairs.” 

Daenerys had every intention of telling everyone to leave so she could focus on Arya, but Tyrion wouldn’t be deterred. “Well?”

She glanced down at him and by the time she looked up again Arya was gone. 

R-C

Three-fucking-weeks. Nineteen days and seven hours to be exact since Arya woke up and Daenerys still hadn’t managed to speak with her alone. Her frustration was starting to show. 

By the time she’d agreed to let Jaime Lannister stay, on the conditions that he remain unarmed and not be allowed to send messages to King’s Landing or anywhere else, Arya was lost to her. She left the Maester’s room and retired to a distant corner of the castle. Daenerys knocked and asked to be allowed entry, but no reply came. It might have been unbearable except she also ignored Jon, Tyrion, Missandei, Yara and anyone else who was brave enough to try. If it hadn’t been for the occasional times she saw her moving around the halls she might have feared her health was dire, or that she’d taken a turn for the worse. Food was left outside the door, to be picked up later. Daenerys considered waiting in silence next to her tray, but she feared Arya would somehow know she was there and decide to starve in stubborn protest. Daenerys took to waking in the middle of the night and slipping out to the courtyard, just in case Arya went outside as she often did in Winterfell. She waited there alone, hoping she’d get the opportunity to talk with her as they once had. It never happened. When she grew restless and tried the knob without knocking she found it locked. It took the staff three days to locate the key necessary to unlock that room and even then, Arya thwarted them. She inserted something into the keyhole from her side, preventing the teeth from reaching the proper tumblers. The message couldn’t be clearer if she’d carved it into Daenerys’s side of the door. I’ll be out when I’m ready and not before! 

When she wasn’t entirely dedicated to convincing Arya to speak with her, Daenerys had been trying to prepare correspondence to send to Dorne. Their ruler was dead, along with one of her Sand Snakes and the people needed to know. Otherwise she feared they’d keep granting the Lannisters concessions, not realizing no matter how big the ransom offer, it could never be enough. When it came to discussing the details of their deaths, Daenerys kept things intentionally vague. She said that she learned both women died in the Red Keep’s dungeon, but didn’t say how, or by whose hand. 

At the bottom, just above her signature she inserted the promise that if during their attack on King’s Landing she could secure their bodies they’d be shipped back for proper Dornish funeral rights.

Both Tyrion and Missandei reviewed the contents of the letters for her and were as pleased as she was. With their blessings, she got started right away on the second. It took hours, writing copies of the same letters but she wanted each of Oberyn’s surviving daughters to receive them. More importantly, she wanted them to be in her hand. Not ordered by the Queen or even dictated by the Queen but actually written by the Queen. With winter upon them she sent the news by courier rather than raven. She wanted them hand-delivered, so she could be sure the girls received them. 

Now all she could do was wait. With a little luck learning the gruesome fate of the Sand women would spark a desire to be involved in Cersei’s demise. The Dornish dislike for anything and anyone from King’s Landing was already deeply ingrained. Hate of Cersei was what brought Ellaria into her service in the first place. She hoped the weather cooperated and allowed a quick trip, because Daenerys’s plan would become a lot more difficult to achieve if those in Dorne sat on their hands and refused to get involved. 

R-C

The raven from Sansa caused everything to move at a higher speed. The first wave of soldiers left just hours after the note arrived. The main force was scheduled to catch up after things at Dragonstone were settled. With need for as many men as they could spare Daenerys had concerns about leaving her home defenseless. How many men would be needed to keep Dragonstone safe? Who could she trust to lead them in her absence? In the end, she chose Varys to maintain things and left him a security force of Unsullied. Hours were spent everyday discussing how to move an army the size of hers to Winterfell as quickly as possible, with minimal disruption. They needed to reach the Northern stronghold before the White Walkers did. Daenerys could only hope Bran’s visions gave them the advanced warning they would need. 

“We need more dragonglass,” Tyrion said from her left as he reviewed the latest reports from the smiths. 

“They’re going as fast as they can,” Varys assured him. “Shipments have been going North since the King first arrived.” 

“What else can we do?” Jorah asked, before he answered his own question. “Fire kills Wights as surely as dragonglass. Every soldier needs a bottle of drink, a torch and a flint as badly as they need a weapon.”

Tyrion resisted slightly. “The dragons will breathe enough fire. If we march with too many supplies, it’ll only slow us down.” 

Jorah looked to his Queen, expecting her to decide which of them was right. “The Khaleesi can’t be everywhere at once. The men need to be able to keep the Dead back until reinforcements arrive.” 

The debate ended when Jon said, “You’re both right. If we load our men down with too many things, we’ll arrive too late.” Tyrion looked pleased with Jon’s support, but it didn’t last. “It’s also true that we can’t rely on Daenerys and the dragons too heavily either.” 

“So, what’s the answer?” Varys wondered. 

Jon thought for a moment. He set a hand over Daenerys’s on the arm of her chair and their eyes met. Silently she urged him to share his views. “Any one man, against White Walkers and Wights will be overrun. There are too many of them. If we’re to have any chance, we need to fight in groups, ten men or more at least. If every group had one or two caches of supplies that should be sufficient.” He stopped to think for another few moments and everyone waited. “Spread across the battlefield, located at strategic points, I think it would work, if we could get them to chase us.”

“Don’t take the supplies to the White Walkers,” Tyrion summarized, “bring the White Walkers to the ready supplies.” 

“How do we do that, exactly?” Davos wondered. 

Any progress she felt they were making evaporated when the only response she got was silence. It was disheartening. “No matter how far we retreat, we will need to fight them,” Grey Worm observed, standing over the map. 

“Not right away,” Arya said, making her presence known. Just as last time, no one noticed her until she revealed herself. Daenerys wanted to jump from the throne and run to her, but she didn’t. She knew Arya would only rebuff her affections and after all that had happened, the stress and strain of the last days, Daenerys didn’t think she could handle the rejection. 

“Arya,” Jon said with a wide smile as he stood. He went to her, to help, but it wasn’t necessary. Her movements were slow, labored even but far better than the day she woke. Her clothes were free of blood and she had her hands behind her back, no longer needing to cradle her stomach wound. 

She nodded in acknowledgement to Jon and worked her way deeper into the room. Her brother lingering in the event she might fall. Even if she hadn’t known Arya as well as she did, the look on her face made it clear she didn’t enjoy being coddled. “King Slayer can you get wildfire?”

“I suppose,” he said cautiously. “Why?”

Arya went straight to the map and standing next to Grey Worm drew a line with the tip of her finger. “Jon’s idea makes sense. We’ll waste too many supplies if we’re all carrying everything we need. Too many will die before they can make use of them. If we set fires in advance, our archers can light their arrows from them, and we can fall back to those locations as needed.” 

Daenerys felt untold amounts of relief at listening to Arya talk. Having her in the same room made everything clearer, brighter. Not even the impending war seemed quite as hopeless with her there. For weeks she’d been surviving on glimpses she stole from a distance. This was so much better. 

“Where does the wildfire come in?” Jorah asked, on the verge of sounding rude. He obviously didn’t like Arya’s sudden interruption or the way everyone was now deferring to her. 

She ignored him, which only heightened the knight’s displeasure. “Grey Worm has a point too. Sooner or later, there will be a fight, but what if we could cut their army in half? What if we could separate the thousands of Wights into smaller, easier to control groups.” 

Jon was now at the map too, on the opposite side of Arya from Grey Worm. “What are you thinking?”

“We dig. We dig long trenches, here, here, and her let’s say,” she said pointing out the spots she had in mind. “We fill the trenches with wildfire or pitch and then we wait. When the Undead are close we light it.” 

Varys looked to Jon for the answer, as he was their White Walker expert. “Won’t they just avoid the flame?”

“The White Walkers might,” Jon admitted, “but the Wights are mindless. They will walk right through the fire to get their enemy, just as they walked on cracked ice to try and reach us last time.” 

“It won’t kill all of them,” Arya continued, “but if the trench runs all the way around, in a circle…”

Grey Worm understood. “Then they’d be trapped.” 

She smiled at the fellow warrior. “Exactly. Their strength is in their numbers, so we keep them apart.” 

Their current disfunction aside, Daenerys felt pride as she listened to Arya earn the respect of those around her. That was the woman she loved. 

Jon ruffled her hair. “Nice thinking,” he said, before she elbowed him in the ribs, stepping out from under his hand. 

“That solves one of our problems,” Jorah announced, “but we still don’t have enough dragonglass. Even with the supplies the Northmen are making, we’ll be short. We’ll barely arrive in time to fight. We can’t delay much longer to gather more glass.”

“Mormont’s right. We need to leave tomorrow, or all of this will be for nothing,” Tyrion remarked. 

“Sam,” Jon said, drawing attention to the Maester who up until that moment had been quiet. He was one of the most learned men in the room yet rarely spoke to anyone except Jon without prompting. Daenerys had originally thought him strange, but then she met Gilly and Little Sam. Seeing him with his family Daenerys realized he wasn’t odd, only shy. 

“Y..yes?”

“You’ve studied the histories more than anyone. Is there anything else we can do, any other tricks we could try?”

“Um… it’s as you already know, dragonglass can kill them, like I did at,” he paused, “well you already know about that. Fire too,” he said looking to the Queen. “That’s all the texts say, unless we can find Valyrian steel.”

“Valyrian steel can kill White Walkers?” Varys asked, seeking confirmation. 

“The scrolls say so.”

From her belt Arya retrieved the dagger Bran had given her, the one meant to kill him and twirled it with a flourish. Daenerys couldn’t look away. She passed it over to Grey Worm who immediately approved of the tool’s sharp edge. “Shame we can’t mine Valyrian steel from under the castle too,” Tyrion commented sarcastically. “We’d never want for gold again.”

“There may be a few Targaryen weapons in the armory,” Jon noted, “left over from Daenerys’s ancestors.” 

“A few extra swords will help, but not much.”

“I know someone,” Arya said, turning away from the map. 

“You know someone?” Varys repeated in question. 

“A weapons merchant in Braavos, she has a surplus of Valyrian steel daggers, swords, spears, anything we could want.” 

“Where did they come from?” Tyrion wanted to know. 

“The bodies of the dead. Her family has collected, bought and sold weapons for centuries going back to a time when there was a land bridge between Essos and Westeros. Their goods are passed down father to son, generation after generation. Or in this instance, father to daughter,” Arya explained. 

“It’s a woman?”

She glared at Jon defiantly, making Daenerys burn with want. “Not all women are suited to court and sewing,” she retorted bluntly. Daenerys ached to kiss her. 

“It might work,” Davos acknowledged. 

“Do you think she’d help us?” Jon asked his sister. 

“If we bring enough coin she will,” she predicted. 

Jaime reminded them he was there. “Not that any of you asked me but you don’t have time for that. As you’ve all said, we’ll barely reach the North before the Night King. How do you plan to get to Braavos and back before then?”

“I could take you,” Yara offered, igniting Daenerys’s unfair jealousy again, “but I don’t think even Black Wind could get you to Winterfell before the White Walkers are at the gate.” 

Up until that moment Daenerys had been content to let the ones more skilled in warfare plot. Now, she finally had something to contribute. “We could make it if we fly,” she said. 

“Your Grace?” Jorah prompted for clarification. 

“Arya and I could take all the gold from our treasury to buy the weapons. If we took Drogon we’d return to Winterfell before the army arrived.” 

Jon turned his attention to Arya, as many others did, each wanting to see if she’d agree. Those who knew of their past relations were aware of just how much Daenerys was asking. Missandei smiled warmly, likely pleased that Daenerys had finally found a way to get the Stark alone. 

Although she looked like she wanted to refuse, her sense of duty won out. She looked past to Jon and grey eyes met violet for the first time in far too long. “I’ll be ready when you are, your Grace.” 

The use of her title was still cold, empty of any gentle teasing or affection. Daenerys chose not to focus on that, instead keeping her mind on the fact that she’d not only have Arya’s company during the trip but also that once they were on Drogon, even an assassin as skilled in stealth as Arya wouldn’t be able to escape. 

R-C

“Are you alright, your Grace?” Missandei asked with concern as she braided Daenerys’s hair for the trip. 

“It’s just so hard,” she admitted, covering her face with her hands and then scrubbing her palms down her cheeks. “All I want to do is talk to her and she’ll barely look at me.”

“She’s still recovering. I heard Sam say her wounds would have killed most fighting men.” 

“Arya’s too stubborn to die,” Daenerys said as she wrestled with her emotions. At Arya’s bedside she’d prayed, she’d begged, she’d bargained. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than Arya’s forgiveness, not even the Iron Throne but she couldn’t have it. The Northerner wouldn’t be in the same room with her for more than a few seconds before fleeing. That hardly gave Daenerys the necessary time to fix the damage she’d done. “I prayed for her, you know.”

“Of course. You love her.”

That did it. Confirmation in a voice other than hers of what she already knew. She loved Arya Stark. A tear came from each eye. “It’s just so hard,” she confessed. “I prayed that she’d survive, even if she despised me and my prayers were answered. She woke up, just like I wanted, I just didn’t…” she stopped and tried to gather herself, finally wiping away the tears that had gathered near her chin. “I had no idea it would hurt this much to have her hate me.” 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Missandei said confidently.

“She sure acts like it,” Daenerys pointed out. “The other day I noticed her in the halls and when I smiled she turned and went the opposite way.” 

“She loves you.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Daenerys asked, her anger building. “Does that sound like love to you? She refuses to even speak to me. I haven’t been able to ask how she is, if she’s recovering. I need to get information from Sam and Jon.” 

“Being around someone you hate is difficult,” Missandei said wisely, “but it can be done. Arya hates the Lannister, does she not?”

“With good cause,” she said, rushing to Arya’s defense. 

Missandei smiled knowingly, as if Daenerys had inadvertently made her point for her. Daenerys thought back to what she’d said and couldn’t see the connection. Thankfully Missandei was prepared to spell it out for her. “She hates him and yet she can talk to him, be in the same room as him, look at him.”

She still didn’t understand. “What are you saying?”

“I think if Arya hated you, she’d treat you as she treats him. She doesn’t because what she feels for you is not hate. What she feels for you is love she thinks she can not have.”

“She could have it,” Daenerys proclaimed childishly. “If she’d talk to me I’d tell her so.” 

“Yes,” her friend said with a smile, “but Arya doesn’t know that… yet.” 

It gave her hope that one of the smartest women she’d ever known viewed things this way. Maybe she could fix things with Arya. All she needed was for the Wolf to talk to her. She would have a captive audience. She began crafting her arguments in her mind. Perhaps Arya could be swayed by the fact that Daenerys and Jon had been married for months and even in Arya’s absence hadn’t developed the feelings she feared or suspected they might. Appearances aside, Jon and Daenerys were only friends. If her last time with Jon produced the child they needed, she would be able to promise Arya she would never be with him again. They’d still need to pretend to be married in the daylight hours, in public, at least until the wars were finished but in private Daenerys would belong to Arya completely. Once they had peace and an heir, Daenerys had already decided that she’d end her marriage to Jon, regardless of the results. Losing the North seemed like an acceptable price to pay. She’d done what she did for the good of the people, but after seeing all the destruction left in the wake of that choice Daenerys was no longer willing to spend the rest of her life in the rubble. She needed to rebuild. She needed Arya. If she could get her to see that, then maybe they’d have a chance. 

R-C

Four large sacks of coins and valuable stones were carried out onto the beach. As promised Arya was waiting when Drogon appeared above them. The ground shook as he landed and just like that first night Arya didn’t flinch. It occurred to her how often she thought of their meeting under the Weirwood Tree. So much had happened since but Daenerys knew that no matter what came next, no matter how many more years she lived, that would always be one of the pivotal moments, one of her crossroads. Whether Arya forgave her or not, she’d categorize her memories based on that night, before she met Arya and after. 

In addition to Needle, although she couldn’t see it Daenerys was confident her Valyrian steel dagger was hidden somewhere under her clothes. 

Daenerys had changed into riding leather for the flight. She walked to Drogon and petted him, while the Dothraki used large ropes to tie the sacks around his massive body. The dragon turned his head toward Daenerys’s heated hand, causing the Queen to smile. 

Jon, Davos and Arya were huddled together. The knight was the only one of the three who seemed frightened by Drogon’s closeness. She walked over, showing a confidence she didn’t feel inside. “Arya can I speak with you before we leave please?”

Her cocky smirk vanished as she looked from the men to her. “We really should go,” she said trying to deny Daenerys’s request without being obvious about it. “It’s a long way to Braavos.”

She could feel Jon’s disappointment on her behalf but didn’t acknowledge him. “It’ll only take a minute.” 

“Very well,” she allowed. She took a single, deliberate step to put space between her and the men. “Yes?”

She knew what the stubborn woman was trying to do. She didn’t want to be alone with Daenerys. Without asking permission she took hold of Arya’s hand and pulled her further away, around one of the stone walls protecting the interior of the castle. She easily could have refused. All she needed to do was to raise her voice and make a scene and the presence of the others would force Daenerys to release her. Failing that she could have dug her heels into the sand and stayed, but she allowed herself to be dragged away. 

Around the corner, separated from those gathered to see them off it was almost overwhelming. She knew what she wanted to say, had been practicing in her head even, but deciding how to begin was proving difficult. The lump in her throat didn’t help matters any. 

“What is it?” she asked. As soon as they were away from the others she stole her hand back. The Queen couldn’t decide if she wanted to slap her for being difficult or kiss her. Likely both. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “I think we need to talk before we go.”

Her uninterested expression hardened to ice in a blink. “We don’t need to talk. We’re going to get the weapons because it’s for the good of the people.”

Without seeing into Arya’s mind, she couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think it was a coincidence she chose those particular words. It was the same excuse Daenerys had used to justify all the harm she’d done. “Yes, we are, and you’re going to need to speak to me. You can’t avoid me forever. I’ve missed you and…”

“I didn’t choose to come back Daenerys,” she said with force. “One minute I was bleeding on the streets of King’s Landing, certain I was destined to meet the Many Faced God and the next I was on a ship bound for Dragonstone. I told Jon to let me leave but he refused.” 

Jon had said as much, but it hurt to hear the words from the same lips that had once kissed her so passionately. “You would have died without Sam. If he hadn’t brought you back…”

She didn’t get to finish, and it was probably for the best. She didn’t want to think about Arya dying. Dragonblood or not the thought froze her whole. “Who cares,” she spat. “Valar Morghulis.” 

“Don’t say that!” Daenerys shouted, raising her voice so high she nearly revealed their conversation to those waiting on the beach. “I care. Even if you hate me Arya, I care.” Daenerys took her hand again, fighting against Arya’s attempts to keep it for herself. “You have no idea how often I wish I could go back and change everything. Do everything different.” 

Her frigid exterior finally cracked. “I don’t hate you Daenerys,” she confessed quietly. “I never have. I’m just not strong enough. It’s like I said in the letter, no matter how badly I want to be here, I can’t. I can’t see you and him together. I…” she stopped and altered the words she intended to say. “I just can’t. The best I can do is stay away and wish you well.”

“You don’t have to,” she assured her hastily. The words were out before she could restrain herself. “Jon and I, we’ll never be together again, I promise.” Arya looked at her with doubt and it nearly knocked her from her feet. She’d created that doubt. Everything that was happening was her fault. “I swear to you Arya, never again.” 

She watched her face closely, aware that any emotions she felt would be quickly concealed behind a mask. Was it her imagination or wishful thinking that she thought she saw relief at those words? As expected, it didn’t last long, if it was truly there at all. “What about the baby?”

She shook her head, squeezing their joined hands. “I don’t care,” she said, meaning it. “If it hasn’t happened yet, it never will.” Her mind raced to catch up to her mouth. She’d just said she was willing to accept never having a child. It didn’t hurt as much as she expected. She’d already come to terms with the idea once, she could do it again, if it gave Arya peace. Tyrion would just need to find another way to help her select an heir. She wouldn’t add additional pain to a woman she’d harmed immensely already. 

If asked about it later, she’d blame it on the compounding emotions, the fact that Arya was not only alive, but speaking with her and the fact that the Stark had grown more beautiful during their separation. Without thought to the consequences she leaned in to kiss her. 

Wide eyed, Arya side stepped at the last instant. Daenerys had seen her do the same act countless times while training, expertly avoiding a sword, but to be on the receiving end now cut deeper than any blade. While one part of her knew she was moving too fast, asking too much, the rest of her wanted what it wanted without delay. Hadn’t they waited enough? 

“We should probably go, before Drogon decides to have Jon for dinner,” she joked. 

With the rejection still fresh, Daenerys might have been hurt had it not been for the fact that Arya hadn’t released her hand. It was a start. She caught herself smiling. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: Let me know what you think of Jaime. There were a lot of false starts to get the banter between he and Daenerys right. I hope I did the characters justice. The next chapter is one of my favorites and it is entirely Arya and Daenerys in the present together. We’ll get more from Arya’s point of view, hopefully providing a little window into her thinking. 
> 
> Thanks 
> 
> RC


	11. Chapter 11

Arya hadn’t thought much in the world could catch her unprepared. She’d been wrong. Flying on the back of a dragon was unlike anything she’d ever done or even dreamt of doing. The only thing from her past that came close was the time she warged with an bird in mid-flight. She felt so free, mixed in among the clouds as she flapped the bird’s wings. It was little more than a cheap imitation of how it was now. The unbridled power of Drogon easily dwarfed her expectations. The rumble of his breathing caused Arya to vibrate in her position behind Daenerys. She had to constantly adjust the bag on her shoulder to prevent it from sliding freely down her arm. Never in her life had she felt smaller, or more insignificant. She knew with certainty that if Drogon willed it, she would die and there would be nothing she or Daenerys could do to stop it. It was exhilarating. 

It felt like fantasy. Like she was suddenly one of the characters in a story Nan would tell when she was trying and coax Sansa and her to sleep. Unlike her sister Arya always loved to listen to tales of long ago, ancient worlds, untameable beasts, magic. Some of the first battles she ever fought were there, in that bedroom, against sleep, desperate to learn what happened next. Despite promises from the kind old woman to continue the next night, Arya always feared she’d never hear the conclusion. She doubted even Nan would believe the things she’d seen and done since then, how she could meld with animals, a true Stark-skinchanger, steal a face or now, ride a dragon. 

She’d been unsteady at first, but not afraid, rocking back and forth with every unpredicted move Drogon made. As they got further and further away from Dragonstone, Arya looked down, leaning to her left so she could peek around Drogon’s scales. Everything below seemed so far away, so small. She thought of Bran, the boy who could never climb high enough, who found peace at the top of Winterfell’s tallest towers. Arya regretted he couldn’t do this for himself, but she vowed she’d enjoy it for the both of them and tell him every detail the next time she saw him. 

Black wings flapped twice bringing a gust of wind against her grinning face. It burned slightly but wasn’t at all unpleasant. Daenerys clearly knew something she didn’t, because the Queen looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Hold on!” she yelled. 

Like an idiot Arya intended to ask a question. To inquire as to what was happening, but she never got the chance. After gliding levelly for a moment Drogon lowered his head and his body followed. As they plunged, the water under them got closer faster than she would have thought possible. It stole her air. Arya nearly slipped from her seat before Drogon straightened out again, but Daenerys’s small hand snatched hers. With a strength Arya remembered fondly she tugged her forward, toward the Targaryen’s back. This time words weren’t necessary. Arya’s arms slipped around her waist and she held on. 

High above the world her problems seemed all but vanished. She was aware she’d acted like a bitch at Dragonstone, avoiding Daenerys when she obviously was worried about the assassin’s health. She hadn’t intended to be difficult. The truth was, she wanted to spend every moment she could with Daenerys, both awake and asleep but when she’d returned to the living in the Maester’s chambers she learned of all that she’d missed. It was a surprise to be alone with Sam, without Jon or Daenerys there but she could understand. They had duties to tend to, lives to live. They couldn’t waste all their time with her. While she was resisting Sam’s efforts to get her back into bed, she learned that the royal couple had yet to conceive, despite what Sam called, “a lot of trying.” All too easily she could picture it and Arya’s mood turned sour. As she struggled to pull a shirt on over her head, he told her that Daenerys had been checking on her hours before but then left to go in search of Jon. Under all the pain she felt, most of it having nothing to do with the combat in King’s Landing, she was happy for them. She was glad they’d given their marriage a fair try, regardless of if that left her the odd-woman out. 

Staggering down the staircase with Sam chasing her, Arya was already planning her next move. As soon as she was healed enough to ride, she’d be gone again, and this time she wouldn’t be coming back. With Olenna and Ellaria dead and Yara free, she wasn’t sure how she’d aid Daenerys from a distance this time around, but she’d think of something. 

In the center of a heated conversation with the King Slayer, no one noticed her arrival. It gave Arya the chance to take stock of her surroundings. Daenerys was standing there, as poised and regal as ever. Her beauty was more debilitating than Arya’s injuries. And then there was Jon. The boy raised as a bastard, the victim of constant teasing stood next to his wife. He exuded confidence without speaking, certain in the course he was charting. Their conflict over Daenerys aside, she was proud. 

When she revealed herself to the court, she never thought she’d be close enough to touch Daenerys again, to wrap her arms around her waist and be warmed by her temperature. She thought she’d never again feel the smooth skin that was so different from her own. She hadn’t imagined Daenerys would want to be touched by her again. Their time was over. She’d moved on. All her plans, her every intention evaporated when Daenerys saw and spoke to her. Arya was ill-prepared. As a result, she reverted back to what she was good at, burying her feelings deep and using detachment to scare away anyone from getting too close. 

She had yet to make sense of Daenerys’s words from earlier. She couldn’t comprehend why the wife would try to kiss her, or why she’d swear never to be with Jon again. Sam had no reason to lie about what he witnessed, which begged the question – how could she explain Daenerys’s actions? She didn’t know, but there would be time to solve that mystery later, when she was alone. Now, she chose to savor the feel of Daenerys’s body against her chest. She’d been afraid to blink, not wanting to miss a single thing from her perch on Drogon, but her eyes closed without permission as she felt Daenerys lean back into her hold. She’d pay for her weakness later, she was sure, but for a brief moment she was in paradise. 

R-C

After bringing Drogon in for a landing, not far from the famous Titan, Daenerys was overcome by a wave of disappointment. Flying with Arya had been unique. She was saddened at first when she didn’t immediately grab hold of Daenerys for balance, but those feelings didn’t last long. Within minutes she heard the telltale sounds of laughter through the wind. When she turned to investigate she saw a wide grin stretching across Arya’s face. Her grey eyes bounced from place to place, as though she were trying to see everything at once. It was this youthful excitement that prompted Daenerys to guide Drogon down. Most would be cautious and frightful their first time aboard a dragon but not Arya. She didn’t think her lover feared anything. As an added bonus, the sudden surge toward the sea forced Arya to hug her to keep from falling. Daenerys certainly wasn’t going to object to that either. 

Their arrival stunned the locals and before long a crowd had formed to see what was happening. Even the bravest among the Braavosi stayed several dozen feet back from Drogon as Arya hopped down. She offered Daenerys a helpful hand in a chivalrous and sweet gesture. More than capable of dismounting a dragon on her own, she normally would have refused, but Arya was the exception and she greedily took every opportunity to engage in contact. 

“What’d you think?” she asked, when they were on solid ground. 

Arya’s smile was slightly less radiant than it had been in the air, but still much more pronounced than usual. “That was incredible! I can’t believe you get to do that whenever you want.” It warmed Daenerys to be the one who gave Arya an experience she clearly enjoyed. 

The crowd gasped at the scene before them. As Daenerys understood fully, hearing tales of a dragon was one thing, it was quite another to see one in the flesh. Logically she knew better than to push too far, too fast but she couldn’t help it. She waited a long time to be with Arya again. “Next time, we’ll get you on Rhaegal. We could have a race, I’ve always wanted to know which one was faster.”

For an instant Arya looked tempted by the potential and then she thought it through and retreated back behind her walls. “We should probably go,” she said looking to the sky, “it’s getting late.” 

Daenerys cursed herself for being careless, vowing to do better next time. Removing the bag from her shoulder she let it fall to her feet before she got to work untying the ropes that connected the various bags of coins. Daenerys wanted to help, but Arya wouldn’t allow it. Not even as she struggled to find a way to carry all their goods with only two hands. “Let me help,” Daenerys insisted, wanting to ease her burden. Stubbornly, Arya ignored her until she’d solved the riddle. She successfully hoisted the contents of the Dragonstone treasury all by herself, although she wobbled slightly. Daenerys worried about her stitches, aware they weren’t fully healed. 

Gasps rippled through the crowd when just seconds after being unburdened Drogon returned to the sky, likely to find dinner, Daenerys guessed. In her efforts to carry the gold Arya’d had forgotten about her own bag. Daenerys bent to pick it up, pleased to be able to help, no matter how minor her actions. When Arya saw what she was doing she immediately stopped. Daenerys knew what was coming next. She was going to put down the gold and find a way to carry her bag too. “Don’t you dare!” the Queen protested without malice. “I can carry one bag Arya Stark.” 

She expertly weaved through the onlookers, cutting a path Daenerys could easily follow. Under the weight of her baggage the journey was slow, but Daenerys didn’t mind. There was nowhere in the world she’d rather be. On a corner not too far from where Daenerys had once lived Arya stopped and set down their cargo. While she caught her breath she said, “Open that bag.” Once she had, the Northerner continued, “There’s a cloak with a hood, put it on.” 

“Why?” 

“You’re famous. After those people tell their kin, and the strangers in the taverns and whorehouses along the waterfront they saw a dragon every eye in Braavos will be looking for you.” 

“And that’s bad?” she verified. 

The cloak was pure white, reminding her of the snows in Winterfell. She pulled it on easily, snaring the hood on her braided hair in the process. She intended to reach back and right things when someone beat her to it. Arya reached out, taking hold of the fabric and separating it from Daenerys’s hair gently. Next, her nimble fingers smoothed a roll in the hood and then lifted it up to cover her head. As it was in Dragonstone she wanted to kiss her. Fearing that another attempt would only drive a further wedge between them Daenerys resisted, proud of her restraint. “Thank you,” she said when Arya was finished. 

In an act that gave her hope, Arya’s hand skimmed the edge of the hood until it was over her face. There were no wrinkles in the material, no more tangles to correct but that didn’t stop Arya, who was looking down into her eyes. With one final unnecessary tug she deemed the cloak satisfactory, releasing it. As she pulled away the tip of her smallest finger grazed Daenerys’s cheek. 

When their moment was done Arya turned away, blushing red and focused entirely on regaining her hold of their bags. “That should keep it from being too obvious.” 

“Would it be bad if people knew I was here?” 

“It wouldn’t be bad,” Arya decided, “I’d just have to kill a swarm of Braavosi fortune-hunters, intent on claiming the bounty Cersei has no doubt placed on your head.” 

Oh! Daenerys hadn’t thought about that possibility. “I wasn’t aware there was a price on my head.” 

Arya looked back at her from a step ahead, making it clear she thought that statement idiotic. “If not Cersei than certainly the Wise Masters you removed from power. You have many enemies Daenerys and the North isn’t the only place that remembers.”

R-C

She didn’t mean to bring it up. It wasn’t any of her business but as they worked their way through Braavos her tongue moved without consulting her brain. “About what Yara said…”

She stopped walking and looked over her shoulder, pinning Daenerys with a serious expression. “Nothing happened.”

The relief she felt then was equally unfair and undeniable. She was married to Jon and had been actively trying to have his baby. Arya didn’t belong to her and she didn’t owe Daenerys anything. Still, it was a little easier to breathe hearing that. For a reason she didn’t want to exam too closely she felt it necessary to probe a little further. “Why not? She’s certainly interested.” 

If her earlier comment had seemed idiotic, this one appeared even more foolish in Arya’s eyes. She sighed dramatically, and Daenerys had a hunch that if her hands had been empty, she would have thrown them up in frustration. “I like Yara,” Arya confessed, “she’s good with a sword, can curse like a Braavosi dockworker and can whore and drink almost as well as your Hand, but nothing ever happened between us and it never will.” 

The passion she heard in the words made it easy to believe her. “I’m sorry,” she started, “I know I have no right to ask, you’re free to be with whoever you want it’s just that she’s a Queen now and I can tell she desires you…”

She was rambling. Mercifully Arya put her out of her misery by finding the words she needed to hear and saying exactly them. “You’re wrong. I’m not free to be with whoever I want.” For a second neither spoke nor moved. “It doesn’t matter what Yara wants. Queen or not, she doesn’t get everything she wishes.” She began walking again. “As for me, I’m already sworn to one Queen, loyal to one Queen, in love with one Queen and it isn’t Yara Greyjoy.”

Daenerys was sure her smile was stretching the limits of her face. “Okay then. So where are we meeting your friend?”

R-C 

Every step took them away from the Purple Harbor and deeper into the recesses of the city that had been denied to Daenerys when she was a resident. Viserys insisted she remain where she belonged, where she could be seen by those with power, coin and influence. Even if he hadn’t been as strict as he was, none of her caretakers or servants would have allowed Daenerys to wander the narrow passages between dockside taverns and the many brothels that existed. Even the high-end ships that served as vessels of sin, providing gambling, drink and women for the wealthy were off-limits. She’d been so young then, she hadn’t fully realized just how much of the city she hadn’t known existed. Now she felt as though she was getting a private tour from an expert guide as she followed Arya, who moved knowingly through even the roughest areas. Any concerns she had about ferrying so much gold through such places were tempered by Arya’s presence. No harm would come to her. Arya wouldn’t allow it. 

“Tell me of this woman,” she said without warning. 

“Which one?” Arya said, slowing her steps for a moment and allowing Daenerys to come up beside her. 

She rolled her eyes. “The one we’re going to meet. This dealer of Valyrian steel. How did you meet her?”

“Her name is Oxanna. Her brother trained at the temple the same time I was there,” Arya recalled. “We’d spar for hours to see who was better.” A cocky smirk lined her face as unmistakably as the scar. “I won, of course.” 

Daenerys couldn’t help but be aroused by the confidence. Daario was never cursed by self-doubt and was quick to praise his attributes to any who would listen, but even he would wither under Arya’s cockiness. “I would expect nothing less.”

Her words turned serious. “Let me do the talking, she isn’t going to be happy to see us.” 

Before Daenerys could ask why, Arya stopped and turned to her right. Using a foot, she kicked a plank of wood away, revealing a small hole in a fence. “Go on,” she directed. Daenerys didn’t hesitate, squatting down and crawling through the gap. Arya followed not long after, needing several trips to bring the coins. 

R-C

The hole in the fence led to a small, abandoned home. Inside Arya needed her help to move the large, heavy table from its place. When it was no longer in the way Daenerys saw nothing special about the floor beneath, but Arya knew better. First, she wiped away the thick coat of dust that coated everything, then she used her fingernails to find an edge that Daenerys would never have noticed no matter how long she stared. With little effort she produced a tab that allowed her to open a secret door. Daenerys couldn’t believe it.

Instead of sending her down, Arya dropped the gold first and went down ahead. At the bottom, she stood, ignoring the bags and waiting for Daenerys to descend the rotting ladder. She expected to fall at any moment as she put her weight on the worn rungs but any concerns she had disappeared when she got close enough to the bottom that she felt Arya’s firm grip on her hips. “I’m sorry,” she said as she gathered up their cargo again. 

“For what?” Daenerys couldn’t for the life of her imagine what Arya had to be sorry about. 

“This isn’t suited for a Queen,” she said looking suggestively at their foul-smelling surroundings. 

Daenerys wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or offended. “I’ve been in far worse places.”

She turned thoughtful, but Arya said nothing. Daenerys was glad she was there, not only because she loved the closeness the tight tunnel forced upon them, but also because as she followed Arya past one crossroad and then another she was positive she’d be dreadfully lost without Arya’s aid. 

Daenerys was beginning to think it would never end, when the tunnel opened to a large underground room. It was empty and unfurnished except for a pair of burning torches that confirmed someone had been near recently. The ceiling, if you could call it that, was barely high enough to accommodate Arya’s height. Someone Jon’s size would need to bend. “I should kill you where you stand,” a voice said. Not even its distinct femininity, or the strange accent could disguise the edge in it. 

In front of her Arya dropped the coins and subtly nudged Daenerys in one direction while she took a step in the other. “You’re welcome to try,” her lover said with her hand on the pommel of her favored sword Needle. 

She tried to focus, to get a sense of where the woman was, but the echo made it impossible to tell. “The temple is offering a chest of gold for your corpse. Perhaps I’ll collect it.” 

Daenerys was so intent on tracing the sounds that she neglected to see the movement until it was too late. A shadow moved from the corner of her eye and then it was gone. Before she could find it again Arya was moving, not away from Daenerys as the Queen expected but toward her, roughly pushing her aside with her free hand as she drew her sword. She hadn’t seen the weapon coming toward her until Arya’s thin sword flashed up to deflect it. 

“Leave her out of it!” Arya growled furiously. She approached the danger in an attempt to put more space between Daenerys and the threat. “If you wish to dance with me so be it, but we both know who’ll win.” 

This time Daenerys saw the swing of a blade, aimed for Arya’s already injured center. She held her breath until she heard the clang of Needle knocking it away. “A lot has changed. You’ve been gone a long time. I’ve learned much.” Her accent was not one Daenerys recognized. “Who is she? Why is she here?” The questions came with a flurry of action. One by one the woman in the shadows took three swipes at Arya, each one avoided at the last moment. “You’re slow.” 

Daenerys couldn’t let this continue. She had the upmost faith in Arya’s talents, but she was still recovering. She couldn’t allow harm to come to her. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed the hood back to expose her hair and face and then stepped toward the limited light. “My name is Daenerys Stormborn, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and I’ve come to offer you more gold than any temple ever could.” 

As suddenly as it began, the combat was over. A dark laugh echoed before Oxanna stepped to Daenerys, revealing herself for the first time. Wearing clothes similar to Arya’s, she was taller, the top of her light brown hair grazing the dirt ceiling with very step. The sleeves of her brown shirt were rolled up to her elbows and her hands were black with filth. It didn’t escape her notice that Arya looked enraged, chewing on her bottom lip as her jaw vibrated with tension. She copied every of Oxanna’s steps, remaining between Daenerys and the other woman. “A Queen? Slumming it are you? What happened to you?” 

Daenerys wasn’t about to tolerate Arya being disrespected in her presence. “Do you want the coin or not?”

“Oh, she’s got a fire in her this one,” Oxanna noted accurately. “If I were into women...”

“Enough!” Arya roared before she could finish.

One look at her big doe-like eyes and Daenerys could tell this Oxanna was enjoying the back and forth. “Touchy subject I see,” she teased. “What are you offering exactly?”

“The contents of the Dragonstone treasury,” Arya answered, “every coin, every copper, every jewel.” With a tilt of her head she directed the merchant’s eye to the bags dropped earlier. 

Even in the darkness Daenerys could see they had her attention. “The Waif was my friend,” she said to Arya as though Daenerys wasn’t there. “She was my friend and you killed her.” 

For her part, Arya was unrepentant. “You like gold far more than you ever did that cunt.” 

Daenerys feared another attack but Oxanna only smiled knowingly and chuckled. “True enough. What would you ask in return for such a generous gift?” 

“Every piece of Valyrian steel you have.”

The other woman wasn’t as skilled at hiding her emotions as Arya and Daenerys could read them all. She hadn’t anticipated that. “That’s my most expensive, rarest and most sought after….”

“We’re overpaying, and you know it,” Arya countered, redirecting her focus to the sacks of valuables. 

“If I kill you I can keep the gold and my goods,” she reminded them. “Plus, I’d be a hero to the Faceless Men.” 

“You’re right,” Arya confessed, moving closer to the other woman, “then again, if I kill you, you’d get nothing, and be remembered by no one, just another one on the long list of people I killed.” Seconds passed, and Arya shifted to a subject they could discuss more easily. “How is your brother?”

“Dead,” she answered bluntly. 

Arya bowed her head slightly, but Daenerys noticed did not take her eyes off Oxanna. “I’m sorry, I’ll mourn him.”

The sister was unimpressed. “Save your pity, he met your God only after his target. He made sure he went to the next life fulfilling his oath, unlike you.” 

The Northerner was affected by her taunt. While Daenerys watched, she deflated slightly. “I’ll pay one day, as we all will.” 

Oxanna raised her weapon and used it to point at Arya’s chest. “Perhaps today.” 

All at once, Arya’s regret evaporated, and she became defiant. “Not today. Now do I need to find another merchant or will you relieve me of my bags of gold?” 

“What is all this for?” she asked, addressing Daenerys. 

“None of your fucking business,” Arya snapped. “Do we have a deal?”

When she turned her back, Daenerys knew she would accept. “Remain here, I’ll bring you what I have, but I want to see inside the sacks before I decide.” 

Arya got the last word. “I’ll need that one too,” she said, pointing with Needle to the weapon that had tried to kill her, the weapon Oxanna still held tightly. 

R-C

“What the fuck were you thinking!?” Arya shouted as they walked. They were moving much faster now, without the bulging sacks of gold. Arya’s arms were again full, this time with rolls of weapons but they were lighter and less bulky. “She could have killed you.”

Daenerys was touched by the worry. “I knew you’d never let that happen.”

“I told you you’re valuable, told you Braavos is dangerous and the first thing you do is announce who you are to a woman with a sword,” she summarized, growing exasperated before she reached the end. 

“You were there. I could not have been safer.”

“You don’t know that! You need to be careful. What would happen to Jon if you were killed, or Westeros? They need you!”

“Would you have let her harm me?” Daenerys asked in challenge as the Titan came into view.

“Of course not!”

“Precisely. So, there wasn’t any real danger.” 

She didn’t need to know Arya as well as she did to know she was still upset. They made the rest of the trip in silence. 

R-C

Everything was going exactly as they planned, until it wasn’t. Drogon had been waiting where they dismounted, along with a crowd. As soon as Arya had secured their purchases and climbed on, they were taking off. 

Daenerys steered in the direction of Winterfell and allowed Arya to relax as they soared. She knew when they crossed over into the North. It was evident by the vast increase in the amounts of snow that lined the ground. Even if winter had come to the South, it wasn’t as prevalent as it was in the largest kingdom. 

The Queen took comfort from the fact that Arya gripped her around the middle almost immediately this time. She didn’t know if it was because Arya was growing tired and questioned her balance or if it was because she wanted to hold her, but Daenerys knew which one she wanted to be true. 

The shriek came so abruptly that Daenerys instinctively reached up to shield her ears. She’d never heard anything quite so loud, so pained before. Arya leaned closer in response, her chin on Daenerys’s shoulder. “What in Seven Hells was that?” 

Daenerys didn’t know and planned to tell her companion so when Drogon took a sudden turn. The leisurely flight became hurried as her largest child flapped his wings fiercely, propelling them toward his newly selected destination. Daenerys’s hands fell from her head to grab the scales, trying to turn him back on course, but he rebelled and kept flying. 

“What’s happening?” Arya shouted in her ear. 

Daenerys hated to admit it, but she didn’t know. Not even when he was young and wild had Drogon ever flown so fast with her aboard. It was the first time she had to admit she was a little bit afraid of him. “I’m not sure!”

The flight was both fast and long. Drogon’s large wings moved them quickly, but the distance they travelled took time, even at their increased speed. When they passed over the Wall, Daenerys knew wherever he was taking them wasn’t good. 

R-C

They were at Drogon’s mercy and Arya didn’t like it. Just as Daenerys had she did what she could to try and alter Drogon’s intentions, but she failed. From the moment of that horrible scream she no longer enjoyed the flight. Not even having Daenerys to hold was enough to counteract the growing dread she felt. Her instincts were a finely crafted weapon and she could all but smell the danger in the air. 

Being behind Daenerys put her at a distinct disadvantage. As he took them lower without slowing even slightly Arya was so focused on keeping her and Daenerys from falling that she didn’t see what was waiting for them. Daenerys did however. “I don’t believe it,” she gasped. If Arya had been any further away, she might not have heard. 

Fearing what could create such a response, she tightened her hold on Daenerys’s waist and leaned her to the side. Looking around her body. Her instincts were as true as they’d ever been. There, unmoving in the snow, as if waiting for them was the Night King. He sat atop a dead horse, overlooking the space below that would be their battlefield. In front of him, were three White Walkers, on horseback and a fourth on foot. They were arranged in a formation that made it clear they were protecting their leader. Further ahead were six other White Walkers, all standing calmly, awaiting orders. The frontline soldiers were the Wights. She didn’t have time to count them all but there were a lot. Like their Masters, they waited for their prey’s arrival, unbothered by the blowing snow and wicked cold. In the sea of white, the blue eyes were a lighthouse steering toward danger. While she tried to think of what to do her eyes were drawn to a pair of bears, nearly imperceptible in the snow. 

Arya may have been a capable warrior and she had no fear of death but not even Drogon could even their odds. If they landed here, if the enemy attacked, Arya, Drogon and most importantly Daenerys were all going to die. “We need to go!” she screamed. 

“We can’t!” Daenerys yelled back. 

She couldn’t believe her ears. What was difficult to understand? They were going to be killed! “Daenerys! Make him fly!” she pleaded, aware that every foot they sank took them nearer to the point of no return. 

“I can’t!” she opposed. 

Trying to understand Arya followed Daenerys’s eye and noticed something she hadn’t before. There on the hill, above all the others, behind even the Night King himself, was a dragon. “Is that…”

“Viserion!” she confirmed. “He’s not dead.”

No, he wasn’t dead, it was far worse than that. He had been brought back by the Night King. If their odds were poor before, they were worse now. The next thing she knew the ground came up to meet them. The force with which they struck was too much and Arya slipped. As she fell, she felt herself pulling Daenerys with her. Worried for the Queen she pushed her back the other way, hoping to protect her. She heard Daenerys call her name, before she dropped out of reach, to Drogon’s right. 

She knew at once the fall had done what her brief fight with Oxanna couldn’t, torn her stitches. She could feel the fresh warmth of blood but couldn’t worry about that now. As quickly as she could Arya got to her feet. By the time she had, Daenerys had dismounted on the other side. She was standing, suggesting she had climbed down rather than being tossed as Arya had, but she couldn’t know for sure. 

To Arya’s horror, the woman she loved was moving toward the army. Another cry came, similar to but more intense than the one they’d heard on the way to Winterfell. Now Arya understood. It had come from Viserion. Her ears felt as if they were bleeding along with her stomach and both she and Daenerys sank to their knees. When the cry was over, she was up first, running around in front of Drogon. The dragon snapped his jaw menacingly and Arya wasn’t sure if it was for her, or his brother. It didn’t matter. 

After what felt like forever she reached Daenerys and threw herself at her feet, blocking her path. “We need to go!”

Daenerys didn’t say anything, she didn’t even look at her. She was entirely captivated by the dragon she thought had been killed. Arya glanced back at the Undead, who still refused to move. They didn’t have time for this. They were in an indefensible position. When the order came, when the Wights ran, they’d be overrun for sure. Without any other options she straightened up, blocking Daenerys’s view of the dragon. “Daenerys,” she tried, “Daenerys! Do you want to die? If we stay here, we’re dead!”

All at once she returned to herself, blinking hard and noticing Arya’s presence. She gasped. “That’s…”

“I know,” she said in a rush. “I know and I’m sorry, but we can’t help him now. We need to go. Can you make Drogon fly?” 

Two sets of living eyes were drawn to the dragon in question as he flapped his wings and took flight. Arya feared he was abandoning them, until she saw the spear arching through the air. Daenerys saw it too. “No!” she wailed, anticipating another death. She laid her body over Daenerys’s to protect her, but even with her blocking the sound, he heard the command. “Dracarys!”

The bright orange flames provided color to all she could see. She felt the heat and looked up just in time to see the spear melt under Drogon’s breath. There was another scream then, not from Viserion but Drogon. This one, while loud wasn’t painful for Arya. The Wights on the other hand, seemed bothered by it. They called in their wordless tone, screeching in pain and clutching their heads. Even those without ears seemed vulnerable. Arya looked deeper and saw the White Walkers unaffected. 

Drogon landed again, this time in front of the women, shielding his mother. Remembering where they’d been Arya rushed toward his tail, to where the weapons were stored and pulled out a sword with each hand. She didn’t have time to select the proper tools for the job, taking instead anything her hand could touch. She passed a long, ornate sword to Daenerys. “When I start fighting, you run! Run as fast and as far as you can! Don’t stop, no matter what.” 

Although she took the weapon, Daenerys wasn’t as concerned as her partner. “They aren’t even coming,” she noted, looking around Drogon to confirm. 

“They will,” she countered confidently. 

“I won’t leave you!” Daenerys resisted. 

Arya’s eyes had been studying their surroundings for an escape. She’d heard the story of the Wight Hunt. She knew Jon had managed to avoid the Undead by surrounding himself with water. Apparently, these fuckers learned from their mistakes because Arya couldn’t see a drop anywhere. She had remarkably little to work with, a ton of snow, a few icy rocks and a hill about two hundred yards behind her. It wasn’t much, but Arya thought she might be able to use the increase in elevation to buy Daenerys enough time to flee. Once she was gone, she’d need to count on Drogon to help her with the rest. “You don’t have a choice. You need to survive Daenerys, for Jon, for me, please!” she begged. 

“No!” Daenerys refused. “I’m not leaving you again.” 

They were out of time. Whatever the Night King had been trying to accomplish, by luring them there, by not attacking on sight, he’d given up. With a wave of their swords the White Walkers directed their followers forward and the Wights, eager for battle took off running. Arya grabbed Daenerys by the shoulders and turned her. “See that hill,” she said pointing with her finger. “Go!” When she wasn’t convinced Daenerys intended to listen, and with the screams of the Dead drawing near, she added, “I’ll be right behind you.”

Stubborn and fearless the Queen wouldn’t budge. “Whatever we do, we’re doing it together!” 

Gripping Daenerys’s arm, she pulled her back, away from Drogon. He snapped viciously at the approaching horde, and when they didn’t cease, took off. This time he didn’t need Daenerys’s instruction to begin the destruction. He bathed the first wave of Undead in flames, burning the frontline Wights to ash and leaving small spots of melted snow and flickering flames where they’d once been. The second row of Wights quickly moved forward to fill the empty space, walking right into the remnants of the fire. In some cases, it was enough to ignite them too. It was as Jon said, they were too mindless to stop. 

With a long, double edged sword in one hand, Arya held her dagger with the other. Her death was almost assured, but she wasn’t going to make it easy. If things had remained that way, Arya might have allowed herself to hope that they could hold out. She’d heard of Drogon’s power, but he outmatched even the most outrageous rumor. He killed by the dozen, leaving little behind. It couldn’t last. Not even a dragon was enough. The Wights were too widely spread. Drogon couldn’t cover the whole line. He attacked the center, killing those who were closest to them, but left the others alive. This created a horseshoe-shoe shaped opponent, with those outside of Drogon’s range closing in from both sides. 

Arya was still pushing Daenerys back, when she heard the roar of a snow bear. In her haste she pushed Daenerys harder than she intended, causing her to stumble. “Go!” she demanded before she rounded on the speeding animal, with her Valyrian steel. By the time she turned the beast was in the air, posed to come down right on her. His weight was too much, and she fell onto her back under him. His icy claw shredded her clothes to get to the warm flesh underneath. She thrusted her sword up into his gut and stabbed the dagger into the side of his hairy neck. The Valyrian steel did its job as Sam promised, the bear died, freeing her. The damage he caused however remained. Her chest throbbed, the way it happened when she remained outside too long. So cold it burned. 

Back on her feet, she heard Daenerys grunting with effort as she swung her sword nearby. Arya followed the sound, barely looking at the surrounding Wights before she killed them. She brought death with both hands, immediately moving on as soon as she’d made contact. If she’d had time to think, she might have wondered where Drogon was and what he was doing. As it was, she couldn’t be bothered. All that mattered was Daenerys. 

She’d been so busy killing without strategy that she almost missed it, the arrival of a White Walker on horseback. Trapped and cut off from Daenerys, Arya didn’t know how much longer she could keep the pace. When a spear nearly skewered her, she knocked it away with her sword. She stabbed the Wight who grabbed her arm with the dagger before she met a pair of icy blue eyes. So far, it had all been right. Everything Jon said, everything Nan spoke of was real. She’d just have to hope this was too. She walked between grasping hands, avoided mashing teeth and locked her eyes on the White Walker. Since missing with his spear, he’d drawn a sword. With a swipe that meant to take her head she rolled underneath, colliding with a group of Wights that needed to be killed before she could move on. 

Overhead, Drogon and Viserion were doing battle. She didn’t look but knew it. The sounds, the cries, the heat of the fires, it could only be a Dance of Dragons. She gave her back to the Wights and felt the icy slash of a knife or sword before she cut into the White Walker’s horse. With his mount dying under him, the White Walker fell. Arya pounced like she’d taught Nymeria to do, landing on him with both blades, even Wights cut into her left arm and leg. 

If Nan hadn’t been right, about everything, that would have been the end for her. She would have been swarmed by Wights and killed, but with the White Walker dead all those who followed him collapsed, buying Arya enough time to recover. 

Bloodied but still alive she returned to her feet and readied for the next wave. Drogon had been busy while she had been killing. A quick review told her there were a lot less Wights and at least two less White Walkers. In addition to fighting off Viserion, he’d managed to cull the herd. She sought out Daenerys in the madness. She was on the hill, where Arya sent her, taking full advantage. She was smart, staying away from the edge where the Wights grabbing hands might reach, and using the full extent of her short arms to strike at the Dead as they tried to climb up to get her. Mercifully, the Wights seemed to be struggling to comprehend how to succeed, bunching up at the base of the hill, until one of them realized it was possible to climb. 

Arya released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding when she was able to confirm Daenerys looked largely unharmed. Whatever relief she felt however was short lived when she saw what Daenerys clearly did not. A White Walker and his companion snow bear were sneaking up on the Queen from behind. “Behind you!” she screamed, before a Wight cut into her arm, damaging her further. She dropped her sword, no longer able to maintain her grip and pivoted, burying the dagger in the center of the Wight’s exposed skull. 

Swarmed again, her view of Daenerys was blocked. With one hand empty she was relegated to punching the Wights who got too close, as she swung wildly with the dagger, desperate to reach as many as she could. Her panic blossomed when she heard Daenerys’s distinctive cry. Furious and unconcerned for herself, she tackled a Wight and then burst through the opening, leaving a trail of blood behind her. A particularly gruesome injury to her thigh forced her to limp but refused to stop. She moved as fast as she could, but it wasn’t enough. On the hill, Daenerys had managed to fend off the worst of it. Arya could see she’d changed sword arms, leaving her right hanging loose at her side. The White Walker remained in the rear, forcing the bear to advance, pushing her toward the ledge where the Wights were clamoring for her. Unable to reach her in time, she had only one choice, advice. “Forget the bear!” she shouted, praying Daenerys would hear. “Kill the White Walker!” 

Before she could see what happened matching calls from the dragons froze everyone in place. Both sides, the living and dead paid attention. Drogon and his brother were locked in an embrace of sorts, dark wings wrapped around the smaller of the two. Pinning Viserion’s orangish wings to his sides, Drogon prevented him from flying but also sacrificed his own ability. They fell together, spiraling toward the ground with a speed that appeared to Arya as little more than a blur. They left a dent in the snow when they hit, crushing an untold number of White Walkers and Wights. Arya knew this would likely be her only chance. She looked away from the dragons, and rushed toward Daenerys, yelling as she went. “Kill the White Walker.” 

The route the White Walker and snow bear had taken to Daenerys was too long, leaving only one alternative. She needed to go through the Wights. She threw herself into the fray, ending lives as quickly as she could. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and swung wildly as more and more wounds were inflicted on her and them. For a moment, she was allowed to believe she’d succeed, gripping the edge of the icy hill with her bloody hands and lifting herself up out of the Undead slowly. The pain was severe, but she could handle it. She’d feel much worse if Daenerys didn’t survive. She got close enough to touch the back of Daenerys’s ankle before a Wight halted her, climbing up her back while two of his brothers clawed at her waist. She had a choice to make. She could continue climbing and bring the Wights with her, or she could let go, fall down and distract them with what would surely be her death. It wasn’t a hard decision. “I love you!” she yelled before she let go, sinking back into those she’d struggled so hard to climb away from. She thought of Daenerys and nothing else as she waited for the end. Her dagger was gone, lost in the chaos. The time for fighting was over. Now she needed to embrace whatever came next. 

R-C

To say she was exhausted would have been a gross mischaracterization of how she felt. Her arm ached with every swing and her chest felt tight as she struggled to refill her lungs. Her clothes weren’t chosen to combat the sharp chill and slowly the weather was beginning to sap her energy. She’d been caught off guard by a bear claw before she’d managed to force it back with a yell and equally desperate slash of her sword. She wouldn’t have had time for even that, if Arya’s voice hadn’t found her over the violence, warning her of what was coming. That same voice told her to ignore the Wights, to push past the bear and deal directly with the White Walker, and while Daenerys was trusting of Arya’s instructions, it was a hard request to honor. How could she get past a bear? 

She hadn’t realized it was Arya’s hand reaching for her when she felt it against her foot. She kicked back without looking, thinking it was just another Wight. She hadn’t known otherwise until she heard her proclamation of love. Hearing that, she forgot about the White Walker and his bear and spun just in time to see Arya let go. She had no doubt that she’d done so intentionally, and Daenerys knew why. It had been for her. 

While Drogon and Viserion did battle not far away, while the Night King watched from his post, unmoved from his initial position, Arya sacrificed herself. Her distraction provided the White Walker with his opportunity. He moved up, beside the bear and together they attacked. With tears in her eyes for Arya, she heard the creature roar before his claw came toward her again. It was instinct more than will that made her rotate. An inbred sense of self-preservation that she didn’t have much desire to follow. She twisted and lifted her sword protectively, unintentionally catching the bear on his raised front leg. While his beast retreated, the White Walker voiced his disapproval in a language she didn’t know. When he brought down his sword she had barely the strength left to challenge him. The weapon layered in ice shattered on impact with the Valyrian steel and left him vulnerable. With hate she thrusted at the center of his chest, smiling when she felt the blade break the cold skin. He turned to ice before her eyes and took the remainder of the Wights with him, the bear included. 

Not even as she watched it happen did Daenerys allow herself to think it was really over. It was difficult to understand. Her head snapped from side to side, searching for the next danger. When it dawned upon her that there wasn’t one, she ran to the edge of the hill and peered over. Arya was there, resting on a pile of ice and bone that had once been the Night King’s army. She called her name. There was no reply. 

Drogon’s fire reminded her that the war was far from finished. The Night King remained, and he had Viserion and his loyal band of White Walker guards. From hundreds of feet she could feel his stare. She refused to look away. He would die, she promised herself. If not today, then soon. 

Drogon was in the center of the field, standing while Viserion hovered above. She could tell her largest son had a damaged wing, it was clear in the way he moved. Viserion spit at his brother, not the orange and red flames she was used to but a clear, icy blue that made Daenerys shiver, even from a distance. Drogon answered back, and their two breathes met in the middle. She feared she was watching the death of one more thing she loved but after a moment Drogon’s flame overwhelmed Viserion’s. The flying dragon retreated, making the short trip to his Master in only a few flaps of his wings. He landed beside the Night King and the leader dismounted his horse to climb aboard the dragon. She prepared for the coming fight, readying herself for when the Night King ordered Viserion to her, but he didn’t. 

Uncomfortable with the prospect of a fairer fight, he guided Viserion away, leaving Daenerys and Drogon behind him. Once they were gone the White Walkers were quick to join him. She had to simply watch as they got smaller and harder to see. 

It was Drogon’s call that reminded her of what needed to be done. Abandoning her sword, she made her way to where Arya was. Her own pain seemed unimportant as she knelt in the snow next to her lover. “Please,” she pleaded, “not like this.” 

When her hand made contact with Arya’s skin, she was instantly struck by just how cold she was. If she hadn’t known Arya was with her in Braavos earlier she would have suspected she’d spent days North of the Wall, subjected to the ruthless weather. She covered the worst of her wounds with small hands and tried to apply pressure, to keep the blood in. She couldn’t tell if Arya was still breathing, but if there was even a chance Daenerys was going to do what she could. 

She was only vaguely alert to the fact that Drogon was waddling closer, kept on the ground by his own damage. If she could have taken her eyes off Arya she might have understood what he was doing and why when he spit a mouthful of fire. The heat passed over where Daenerys knelt and hit the base of the hill she’d been standing on. She pressed herself over Arya as best she could, her body an anxious shield. When the fire had gone Daenerys intended to scream at Drogon, to yell for carelessly putting Arya at risk, but she couldn’t. As she looked up she was made speechless by the sight of the cave’s opening. It took her longer than it should have to make sense of things. It hadn’t been a hill she was on at all, it had been a cave, a cave that Drogon had just exposed the opening to, melting away the ice that had been sealing it. She didn’t know what was waiting inside but it didn’t matter. Remaining where they were wasn’t a viable option. As an added benefit Drogon’s close-range fire had warmed not only Daenerys, but Arya. She was still much too cold, but Daenerys had an idea of how to remedy that as well. 

She’d often heard the expression, ‘dead weight’ but now she understood its meaning. Arya wasn’t a large woman and still dragging her into the cave took more effort than Daenerys would have liked. Protected from the wind and snow, she immediately felt better about their chances. If she could warm Arya, then maybe…

With a whistle she crawled to the mouth of the cave and summoned Drogon. She saw his eye first, his big head unable to fit inside. Daenerys knew what they needed. “Dracarys.” He didn’t delay, igniting the ground outside the cave and inside. Satisfied she moved Arya as close to the heat as she dared. As quickly as she could without making things worse, she stripped away Arya’s damp, cold clothes, pretending not to notice all the holes in the fabric. Under other circumstances she might have enjoyed exposing her flesh one bit at a time, but she was too frightened. Seeing the extent of the damage, had her worried. There would be many new scars to add to the extensive collection that already existed. Seeing the blood, smelling it, her stomach lurched, and she had to swallow down bile. When Arya was naked she went to work on her own clothes, barely acknowledging the cut in her that stung with movement. 

With their clothes set out to dry, she laid down next to Arya and cuddled in close. It took a few moments to find the most suitable position. She pressed as much of her warm skin against Arya’s as she could, never more relieved to have the blood of a Dragon in her. “It’ll be okay,” she promised as she kissed her frozen lips. “It’ll be okay,” she repeated, praying her words weren’t a lie. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: There you go. More than 8,000 words all with Arya and Daenerys together, in the present. I hope it was worth the wait to the people that are still reading. Let me know what you think. I thought we were overdue for a little action. I originally intended to end the chapter before they found the cave, but that seemed cruel to all the readers following along. The next n will have Arya and Daenerys alone, with no one to interrupt them and the army arriving in Winterfell. 
> 
> Until Next Time  
> RC


	12. Chapter 12

Inside the cave the passage of time meant little. Without the cycles of sun and moon to mark the days Daenerys’s only sense of how long they’d been there could be counted by how many times Drogon came and went. How many times he reignited the fire in the cave’s mouth, ensuring them protection from the Undead, and allowing Arya’s body temperature to continue to rise.

The longer they remained, the louder and more insistent the growling of her stomach became but her body would need to be patient. She’d eat when she was sure Arya was okay and not before. Likewise, her injury didn’t deserve her attention. Thirst was an easy enough demand to accommodate given the large amount of snow they had available. Gathering snow, she held it over the fire. As it melted she used her palms as a crude cup, slurping greedily. 

Not even the horrible situation they were in was enough to keep Daenerys from feeling a sliver of joy at having Arya back. Inside the privacy of the cave there were no demands on her, no interruptions, no duties beyond keeping Arya alive. Here, she could hold her and feel the familiar scarred skin against hers. 

She laid there on her side, pressed tightly under Arya’s limp arm. She vowed to stay awake, regardless of her exhaustion, determined to be ready and willing if there was anything she could do for the unconscious woman. Vows aside, everyone had a limit and Daenerys eventually reached hers. She dreaded every blink, afraid sleep would come, terrified she’d lose Arya forever while she was dreaming. The first major change in Arya since she yelled her love and fell back into the pit of Wights happened while Daenerys wasn’t awake to notice. 

When she returned from her nap Daenerys didn’t realize the significance of the subtle change. Even as she wiped the sleep from the corner of her eye and yawned, she almost missed it. Under her head, under her ear, the very distinct pumping of Arya’s heart. She was alive! She looked to the cave entrance and saw a blazing fire that covered the majority of the opening. Drogon had been there as well. Daenerys knelt over Arya’s body, and set her head down on her chest carefully, anxious to confirm it was Arya’s heart she was hearing and not her own. Satisfied, she put two of her fingers against Arya’s neck the way she’d seen Sam do to check her pulse. It wasn’t her imagination, she could feel the rhythmic thump in her neck too. It was faint but there. Daenerys had done this many times since dragging her into the cave, but this was the first time it was strong enough for Daenerys to feel confident in its steady beat. 

Suddenly Daenerys was overcome, not only with emotions but with the long list of things that needed to be done before Arya woke. Their clothes had been dried but their weapons, those used in the battle and the ones purchased in Braavos had been discarded at various points. She needed to venture out and find them. She also wanted to get Arya’s bag. She didn’t know what the Northerner had packed, but she wanted to be able to present the contents to her as soon as she was alert. Lastly, she needed to check on Drogon. He’d been too wounded to fly after his fight with Viserion. She couldn’t fathom how they’d return to Winterfell without him. 

She pressed her warm lips to Arya’s chilled forehead. “I’ll be back,” she whispered. Emboldened by the fact that Arya survived, she lowered her mouth and placed a second kiss directly on her lips. “I love you too,” she said, replying to the last words she heard before Arya tried to sacrifice herself. 

Aware that any clothes she wore would be destroyed as she walked through the flames she didn’t dress, choosing instead to only gather her clothes, roll them together in a neat bundle and then hide them as best she could between her stomach and her arm. Hopefully, her skin, immune to the heat would leave her enough to keep from getting frostbite. 

Nearing the fire covered opening Daenerys felt the sting of pain. She looked down to assess the damage. Since she’d been cut, the wound had only caused minimal discomfort. If anything, she felt cold more than pain. The flesh around the opening was like ice to touch and the edges of the gash were lined with some sort of frozen crystals. Only a thin strip in the center was warm enough for blood to drip freely and even then, it wasn’t a concerning amount. Under the direct warmth of the flame though those crystals melted, the pain flared, and the trickle of blood became a stream. She immediately worried for Arya. If Arya’s wounds were like Daenerys’s, they’d need to be repaired before the ice crystals melted and she lost even more of her already limited blood supply. In direct contact with her dragon blood Daenerys was surprised it hadn’t melted the ice away from her skin already. If she needed another reason to be highly motivated, now she had it. Time was of the essence. She stepped through the flames and into the frigid cold. 

R-C

The gates were closed when they approached. Before he got near enough to request entry Sansa was there to meet him. Jon fully expected Arya and Daenerys to be there as well, but Sansa was alone, with only Brienne and Podrick as guards. “Jon, thank the Gods you’re here.” 

Their party filed in, eager to get inside and warm their chilled bones. The march had been long and cold. The Dothraki made the entire trip on horseback, led by Mormont. Women, children and Grey Worm’s Unsullied were ferried by the Iron Fleet to White Harbor, then made the last leg of the journey by foot or horse. Winter had indeed come, there was no denying that. It was winter that delayed them by several days, even with the hurried pace Jon set for them from the front. It also gave both groups the opportunity to meet just a day’s ride outside Winterfell. 

Given the length of their journey he couldn’t imagine how they’d arrive before Daenerys and Arya and yet, neither his sister nor his wife was anywhere to be seen. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. “Where are they?” Davos asked, craning his neck to look over the crowds as Jon was doing. 

He hugged Sansa in greeting and tried not to be surprised by how tightly she gripped him and how fiercely she said, “I’m so glad you’re back.” 

Before he could ask in the delicate, polite way he intended, Jorah fired his questions at Sansa. “Where is the Khaleesi? When did they arrive?” 

Following her well-crafted manners Sansa separated from Jon and looked at the man who was addressing her. “Daenerys isn’t with you?”

“She’s not here?” Jorah verified, his voice rising. Sansa opened her mouth to reply but didn’t get the chance. The knight rounded on Jon in anger. “I knew it was a mistake. She’s a killer and she can’t be trusted, even if she is your sister.” 

Tyrion stepped between them. Expertly slipping into his role as mediator. “Let her speak,” he instructed. 

All eyes turned to Sansa and she gave Tyrion a sweet smile before she looked to Jon. “Where is Daenerys?”

That question ate away any remaining hope he’d been clinging to. What could have happened to them? “We thought she’d be here,” he explained. 

When he didn’t go further Tyrion did. “The Queen rode to Braavos with your sister to purchase weapons for the war. We were to meet here. We expected they’d arrive first.” 

At the mention of Arya Sansa’s eyes lifted off Tyrion to Jon. “Arya? I thought she was missing.” 

Without concern for Sansa’s feelings Jorah filled in the pieces that the elder Stark daughter lacked. “She wasn’t missing, she went to the Iron Islands and rescued Yara Greyjoy, then to King’s Landing and nearly got herself killed.” 

Sansa gasped, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. “She’s hurt?”

Jon planned to step forward, to comfort her, but Tyrion was closer. He reached for and took both of her hands in his before smiling kindly. “She’s fine. She was injured in some fighting at the Red Keep, but the Maester says she’ll make a full recovery.” 

Eyes that reminded him of Catelyn Stark were full of anger when they found him again. It took him back to his youth. “Why didn’t you tell me where she was? I’ve been worried sick!”

“We just found her,” Jon said in his defense. “She was barely recovered when we got your raven. We came here as quickly as we could.” Jon looked around at his crowded former home. “What’s the status of things?” 

“You’ll need to ask Bran,” she said, letting go of Tyrion’s hands so she could cross her arms in an act meant to display her frustration with his choices. It was a passive aggressive pose he knew well. 

“Forget about that,” Jorah resisted. “We need to send out search parties and ravens. We need to find the Queen.” 

“And Arya!” Sansa interjected. 

Jon offered her his hand and waited for her to take it, a clear sign he’d be forgiven. “Where’s Bran? Your letter said he was awake.” Sansa nodded, and Jon turned to the worried knight. “Sending armies searching aimlessly is pointless. Bran will know where they are.” 

“Brienne,” Sansa asked. “Have you seen Bran today?”

“Not since this morning m’lady,” she answered quickly. “After his meal I carried him up the tower.” 

She didn’t mean that tower, did she? One look at Sansa and he knew she did. “What is he doing up there?” he wondered as they all began walking. 

“I sealed the gates,” Sansa explained, “stopped him from going out to the Weirwood, so he likes to go into the tower to be alone.”

“That’s…”

“I know,” Sansa assured him. “It wasn’t my idea.” 

He hadn’t intentionally positioned himself close enough to Brienne and Jaime to overhear their conversation, but once he realized he could, he didn’t back away either. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead. 

“No more surprised than I am to actually be here. I hate this place,” he complained. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, looking at him and smiling. “We need a lot of help.”

From the moment he presented himself at Dragonstone the King Slayer had been sarcastic, annoying and bordering on angry but when he looked at the woman from Tarth his entire posture softened and his words too. “I’m all you’ll get I’m afraid. Cersei rescinded her offer of support.” 

Brienne was immediately upset on Sansa’s behalf. “So much for her pledge. I knew this would happen…”

“Stop please!” he begged, holding up his hand. “My travelling companions have already given me a headache. Can’t you just be glad I’m here?”

“I am.”

If Jon hadn’t been so intent on getting to Bran, he might have noticed the way the Lannister stopped walking and stared at the tower, allowing the others to go without him. 

Up the long, winding staircase he found Bran sitting looking out the same window he’d fallen from as a boy. “Hello Jon,” he said before the King could speak. 

“Hello Bran.” He smiled, even though Bran wasn’t facing the proper direction to see it. “I’m glad to see you. Sansa’s letters had me worried.”

“I’m well. The trip from the Wall was difficult. Knowing what happened after I left made it worse.” 

His words reminded Jon that although he cared about Daenerys and loved Arya there were other issues to be addressed as well. His mind was suddenly filled with the faces of the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch members he’d asked to guard the Wall. Men he admired, many he considered his friends. He had effectively sentenced them to their deaths. “What happened?”

Jorah had run out of patience. “That doesn’t matter now,” he said as he forced his way through the cluster on the stairs to stand next to Jon and Sansa. “We need..”

“You don’t need search parties,” Bran announced confidently, knowing what Mormont intended to ask of him. 

Jon went to his brother and knelt next to his chair. “You know where they are then?” he questioned carefully. “You know why they aren’t here?” 

The answer chilled every part of him worse than his death had. “The Night King.”

The Night King. He had so many questions, but one was at the forefront. “Are they…”

“They’re alive,” Bran answered before he had to finish. “They’re recovering.” 

“Tell us where they are.” Jorah insisted. “Tyrion, have Grey Worm ready the men. I’ll lead them myself!” 

Jon had had enough. “Hey!” he yelled, standing up straight and facing Mormont. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder in silent thanks as he voiced his anger. “Never speak to my brother like that again.”

“They’ll return tomorrow as soon as her dragon can fly,” Bran stated casually, completely unbothered by the flaring tempers.

“We can get to them sooner,” Jorah pressed, not ready to let it go. “Just tell us where to start looking.” 

“They’re North of the Wall. You’ll never reach them before Drogon is recovered enough to return them here. Besides Arya isn’t even awake yet.” 

His emotions were reeling. Arya was hurt? She’d just barely recovered from the events in King’s Landing and now she’d had to face the Night King. He knew from experience how difficult that could be. At least Jon had others with him, brothers of the Night’s Watch, Free Folk. All Arya had was Daenerys. 

“She’s hurt!?” Sansa shouted. “How badly? She’s such a fool, she should have stayed here! Why did she go?” 

“Daenerys saved her life,” Bran proclaimed. One by one Jon’s eyes flickered to the faces around him. When he saw Sansa wracked with pain, he felt guilt. Next to her Tyrion was consoling her, wearing a guilty expression of his own. Not far away Missandei was on the verge of tears. Only then was it clear that the secret of Arya’s relationship to Daenerys had extended further than he realized. He debated if he should tell Sansa. It wasn’t his secret to share, but felt she deserved to know. It was wrong for her to be left out, not understanding why Arya willfully abandoned their family after only just having returned. 

He carried Bran down from the tower, at Sansa’s request. Out in the snow they passed Jaime who looked almost ill as he saw them. Jon was going to ask what his problem was when Davos arrived with Bran’s chair, setting it down and commanding Jon’s focus. Jaime took the opportunity to go. 

R-C

Arya’s easy to carry, heavily worn leather bag was a wealth of valuable items. In addition to clean clothes, Daenerys found a skin of water and another of wine, both full to the brim, crackers and fruit. At the bottom, in an unmarked wooden box she found a candle, a flint, several needles and spools of dark thread. She should have known Arya would be prepared for her injuries. 

Wanting to get Arya’s wounds dealt with before she woke, and before the ice crystals slowing the bleeding melted she closed her eyes and thought back to what she’d seen Sam do. The Maester had resewn Arya’s stomach in front of Daenerys, Jon and all her advisors. She’d been unable to look away. She could only hope that she retained more of the information than she thought. 

Her hands shook as she guided the needle to Arya’s skin for the first time. She pulled back to regroup and was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to puke. Dropping the needle and thread she barely managed to get her long hair out of the way before she keeled over and wretched. 

When she had nothing left, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cursed in Dothraki. She needed to do this. Arya needed her to do this. She took a deep breath and said a prayer or two. When she was finished, the shaking had decreased to a slight wobble. She didn’t need Bran’s gift of foresight to know these stitches were not going to be as uniformed, straight or neatly arranged as the ones the Maester created. 

R-C

She was dead. She had to be. How else could she explain the body she felt next to her, the steady breathing, the overheated flesh that could only belong to one person? The pain was there but not nearly as bad as she imagined it would be. A gentle hand roamed her skin, tracing her scars at random. Going from her shoulder, to her stomach and then to a long, jagged mark on the back of her right leg. She bit back the moan that threatened. 

After so long without Daenerys, she remained perfectly still and did what she could to memorize the moment. She’d mastered seeing without eyes in Braavos and she was doing that now, imagining Daenerys next to her. It made death seem worthwhile. 

She took a particularly deep breath, wanting to inhale the scent that was so uniquely Daenerys, a scent she’d missed. She got what she wanted, and in addition could smell and hear the crackling of a nearby fire. 

Given her occupation it was only natural to give more thought than most ever did to her death and what would come after. She always assumed there would be more pain, not that she was complaining. In all that time spent on the subject she never anticipated this. She was a murderer, a killer beyond redemption. For years, before Daenerys, she lived only for revenge. Certainly, that didn’t place her in the favor the Gods did it? She didn’t even have her coin in the event the rumors were true, and she could purchase forgiveness. She’d given it to Daenerys, a choice she couldn’t regret, even now. As she focused on nothing more than the weight of Daenerys’s body wrapped around hers she wondered what she could have ever done to deserve this. 

She didn’t want to open her eyes for fear it might be an illusion, a cruel moment of peace before she was placed where she truly belonged for eternity. That was a risk she had to take. She had to see her, even if only one more time. 

Her limbs felt as though they’d been hollowed out and stuffed with iron, too heavy to obey her commands. She blinked hard and tried to adjust to the limited light. That was strange. The Septas always said there was light, bright light. A sharp pain in her chest drew a grunt from her lips.

From on top of her there was a gasp and seconds later Daenerys’s weight disappeared. It was as she feared, a cruel plot to maximize her anguish. It didn’t matter. Seeing her was worth any price. Unclear and barely open her eyes had granted her with a peek at the woman she loved. Arya would cherish it forever, regardless of what was next. 

The sense of peace she achieved evaporated when it occurred to her that if she was dead, and Daenerys was with her, then that meant she too had fallen. The memories burned her mind as she remembered the Night King, the battle between Drogon and Viserion, snow bears, White Walkers and Wights. She cursed herself for dying. She’d wanted Daenerys to live. She’d truly believed she would and not even having her there was enough to quell that hurt.

Daenerys was kneeling beside her in the dirt, hands clasped together, talking fast as she could, as if she might not get another chance. “Thank the Gods. I thought I lost you.” She threw herself onto the dead woman and hugged her. It felt so real. It took Arya several seconds to get her arms the message to hug back. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” she said emotionally, as she returned to the kneeling position.

Alive, really? The longer she kept her eyes open the clearer her vision became. Details slowly started to creep in, like the fact that wherever they were it wasn’t Winterfell or Dragonstone and for reasons she couldn’t quite make sense of she and Daenerys were both naked. She greedily stared until she remembered Jon and the fact that Daenerys was now his wife. She forced her eyes away and was being relatively successful until Daenerys crawled to a nearby bag, giving Arya a perfect view of her ass that would have been impossible to pass up, whether she was alive or dead. 

She returned with water and held it to Arya’s lips. “Drink,” she said softly. “You need your strength.” 

“Wh…what happened?” she asked, disgusted with the way her voice broke weakly. 

“What do you remember?” Daenerys countered. 

R-C

If it had come from another source, one she trusted less completely than Daenerys, Arya might have thought someone was exaggerating to make the tale more dire, to make their victory more heroic. Not even her own memories of the battle were immune to doubt. More than once Arya caught herself thinking, “Did that truly happen?” 

While she dressed in clothes warmed by dragonfire she listened to Daenerys recount what she’d missed. She started after the fighting and worked backward, telling how she’d gathered the collection of Valyrian steel, how she’d tended to Arya’s injuries and checked on Drogon. Daenerys had made use of what had once been Arya’s favorite shirt, cutting it into strips and using them in place of bandages to protect her cuts and gashes. Tentatively touching an area of damage, she recalled the way a Wight had dug his bony fingers into her arm and torn the flesh away. Closed and covered she could still feel the chill radiating from it. Weak, she dropped back into sleep before hearing about the final moments of the fight. 

When she woke sometime later Daenerys picked up where she left off as if their conversation hadn’t been halted. It hurt more than her wounds to think of Daenerys alone against the Night King. Knowing the outcome wasn’t enough to stifle her dread when Daenerys told of being advanced on by the bear and the final White Walker. “Are you hurt?” she asked, looking suggestively to the strip of fabric that covered her wound. 

“I’m fine,” Daenerys assured her quickly. “I don’t understand it, but it didn’t bleed much. It’s like there was ice blocking the flow.”

“That probably saved our lives,” Arya acknowledged, or at least hers. Her injuries were far more extensive than Daenerys’s. 

She took hold of Arya’s hand and weaved their fingers together. “If that’s true I don’t care the cause. I’m just glad you’re alive.” 

For a time, she basked in Daenerys’s closeness. With only dreams these past months to sustain her, she was spoiled now. Seeing Daenerys naked, feeling her touch, being the sole focus of her attention and affections were all things she never thought she’d experience again. When she remembered Jon and all the reasons the Targaryen could never be hers she worked her hand free. “We should probably go check on Drogon.” 

She tried to stand, struggling until the Queen provided help. “Be careful,” she cautioned as she guided Arya’s wrapped arm around her neck. “My stitches aren’t nearly as good as Sam’s.” She smiled her beautiful smile. “Even if I weren’t a Queen, I wouldn’t be a seamstress. As soon as we get to Winterfell, I’ll have a real Maester mend my errors.”

Fully aware of all the reasons she needed distance from Daenerys, she didn’t move. She couldn’t allow her to think she’d failed in some way, not when the opposite appeared to be true. “You saved my life. I don’t need a Maester to know I should be dead, that I would be dead if not for you.” 

Fingers moved through her shaggy hair and Daenerys leaned forward so she could keep Arya upright and still look into her eyes. “I just got you back. I’m not letting you go.” 

Was it reckless to imagine she was talking about more than their recent near-death experience? The flames that had been blocking the cave and providing heat were low enough for Arya and Daenerys to step over. She wobbled as she attempted to lift her heavy leg higher than usual, but Daenerys was ready and able to keep her from falling. “Thank you.” 

The Northern wind was blowing hard, but the cold was nice, reminding her of home. She closed her eyes and savored it for a moment, still coming to terms with the fact that she wasn’t dead. It was quick, gone before she could respond, a light peck against the corner of her lips, on the same side as her scar. Had she seen it coming she liked to think she would have turned her cheek or at the very least not kissed back, but she doubted her will was that strong. Daenerys had straightened up, ending the connection before Arya had to find out if that was true. “I’m so happy you’re back.” 

She said nothing. She remembered back at Dragonstone before the left, how Daenerys had tried to kiss her then too. She also claimed she’d never be with Jon again, that her attempts to conceive a child would be over. She wanted to believe it, selfishly, but she wasn’t sure she did. She knew how desperately Daenerys wanted a child, how deeply it pained her to spend years thinking motherhood was impossible for her. If there was even a chance it wasn’t, Arya didn’t want to be the reason Daenerys couldn’t claim it. “We can’t,” she said hating how defeated she sounded. 

“I’m not going to apologize,” Daenerys said gruffly. “I thought you were dead Arya. I did what I did to try and save you because I had to do something. I wanted you to be okay, needed you to be, but I didn’t think you would be. You were so cold…” her words slowed until they stopped all together. “I’ve never felt anything so cold, not even the dead.” 

“I’m okay,” she swore. “You don’t need to worry anymore.” She needed to change the subject before she gave in to what every part of her body except her brain was begging for. “Sit and I’ll go and gather up the things from the cave.” 

Violet eyes rolled in disapproval. “You can barely stand. How about you sit, and I’ll go collect our things.” 

No matter how badly she wanted to object, she couldn’t. Simply standing had sapped all her energy. Daenerys lowered her to the snow carefully. She sat next to the cave that had saved their lives while Daenerys went inside, stomping out the last embers of the fire in the process. She came out with a bundle in her arms. Arya recognized it as the weapons bought in Braavos. She dropped them to the ground off to Arya’s right and immediately went back for another haul. 

With a shriek Arya’s eyes were drawn to the sky and she feared Viserion returning. Instead it was Drogon who appeared on the horizon and grew closer with every unsteady flap of his injured wing. Rather than landing he stayed in the air, circling above them. “What is he doing?” she asked Daenerys when the Queen arrived with the last armful of gear.

“Pr…” The word stopped short when Daenerys clamped her lips and raised a hand to cover her mouth. She twisted away and bent at the waist, while Arya was helpless. 

When she was finished the snow was colored by vomit and Arya couldn’t remain sitting anymore. With great effort she stood, setting a hand on Daenerys’s back, rubbing in soft circles. “Are you sick?”

She wiped her mouth clean before she responded. “It’s nothing,” she said. Squatting down she took the last of the water from the skin to rinse her mouth. 

Arya wasn’t ready to accept that. “You don’t vomit for nothing. Something has to be wrong.” 

She shook her head in disagreement. “Too long without food,” she guessed. “I suspect my body is just reminding me of how long its been.” 

“I could hunt for you,” Arya offered without thinking it through. Not only was she in no condition to stalk her prey but she hadn’t seen much in the way of wildlife. If Daenerys was hungry, she’d find something. 

“Don’t be silly,” she countered, forcing a smile to emphasize her words. “We’ll be back in Winterfell shortly and I’m sure there will be more food than I can eat.” Her own stomach rumbled as she thought about it. Any further comments Arya intended to make were wiped away when Daenerys answered the question posed before she was ill. “He’s practicing,” she said looking up at Drogon, “testing out his wings. He used to do that when he was small.” 

It was hard to imagine that thing ever being small. “Was he hurt that badly?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted sadly. “I’ve never seen them fight before.” She shivered, and Arya knew it wasn’t from the air. “I thought he was dead,” she said of Viserion. 

Drogon landed before she had to figure out how to reply. Daenerys went to him quickly, rubbing the side of his neck in appreciation and speaking to him in a tongue Arya couldn’t comprehend. They secured their cargo around Drogon and then Arya meant to climb aboard. Stretching upward immediately caused pain and she recoiled, favoring her chest and leg. “Sit in front,” Daenerys instructed as she supported Arya. Together they got her on Drogon’s back. 

“Why?”

“So, I can keep you from falling.” She didn’t want Daenerys going to any more trouble than she already had and was going to tell her so, but she never got the chance. “Or maybe, I just want to hold you in my arms again.”

Just like that Arya forgot everything she was planning to say. 

R-C

Every hour that passed multiplied the tension. Jon was confident in Bran and his visions, but he was in the minority. As the sun began to set he started to pace, wondering if he’d made a poor choice in ruling against the search. He couldn’t lose them. Arya and Daenerys were two of the most important people in his life. He couldn’t imagine who he’d become without them.

Davos and others tried to distract him with idle conversation, but it wasn’t working. He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, hoping they brought news. “What is it!?”

Sam was there, an unwound scroll in one hand. Next to him Gilly held Little Sam. The Maester opened his mouth to speak but fell silent when he took note of just how many people were gathered. “I…uh…”

Protecting Sam had been something Jon had done religiously for years, first at Castle Black and then after. He knew the Maester was an easy target for those who wanted someone to mock, whether it be because of his size, his intellect or his uncomfortable way in large groups. Others may thrive in the center of attention, but not Sam. It just wasn’t his way. Jon was proud of the man he’d become. He’d found a well of confidence inside himself and excelled at being a father and partner in a way Jon could only hope to aspire too. “It’s okay Sam,” he said, hoping to put him at ease. 

“I received a scroll,” he said, showing it to the King. “It told me of a book that was being sent, it arrived and…”

He was interrupted by Tyrion’s arrival with Sansa. “They’re back,” he stated simply. 

“We’ll talk later,” he promised his friend as he and Jorah raced to be the first out the door. Sam blushed and nodded in agreement. “Come with us, I think we’ll need your help.”

Sam shared a serious look with Gilly before he passed her the scroll. She smiled sweetly at him, providing encouragement. Sam went with Jon into the hall and down the stairs. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’m thrilled people seemed to like the last chapter. Writing combat is a challenge for me, so hearing it was entertaining takes a weight off my shoulders, at least for the next couple of chapters. Everyone’s back at Winterfell, now. After two steps forward for Arya and Daenerys, they go one back. Arya also learns a secret that’s been kept from her. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and the reviews.   
> RC


	13. Chapter 13

The flight took longer than she would have liked. With every minute that passed she feared her sewing would break and Arya would begin bleeding. She doubted her worries would fade when she’d been examined by a Maester, but Daenerys hoped the concern over her potential death would dull to a more tolerable level. Drogon was slower than usual, favoring his wing as surely as Arya and Daenerys were their injuries. She sat behind Arya with her arms wrapped around her upper chest, doing what she could to avoid the healing parts. 

Within seconds of Drogon’s landing they had company. “Khaleesi, are you hurt?” Jorah asked. 

Jon and Davos assisted Arya. “I’m fine.” She found Sam in the crowd. “Tend to Arya please, she was hurt. We were attacked…”

“By the Night King,” Jon finished. “Bran told us.” She should have guessed what happened wouldn’t remain a secret for long. 

Despite the Queen’s orders Arya was less than thrilled to be fussed over. “I’m fine,” she growled at the Maester, knocking his hand away when he tried to touch her. 

Daenerys turned away from where Jon and Jorah stood, separated by Tyrion. Each one watching her expectantly. “Arya, let him look at you.” 

She used an authoritative tone, one that typically produced results. She should have known better than to expect Arya to act like everyone else. “After you,” she challenged. 

Two words that doubled the concern of those around her. “Were you hurt Khaleesi?”

She was going to answer, to minimize their ordeal but Arya had other plans. “There was a bear and I think one of the Wights may have scratched her too. She’s been sick.”   
Daenerys glared at her lover as though she’d been betrayed. “I’m fine. We need to discuss strategy. We’re already behind schedule.”

“We made some progress there,” Jon told her. “Jaime snuck back into King’s Landing and got several barrels of wildfire. Teams of men are digging trenches and scouting. The armies can march when you’re ready.”

“Send them,” Daenerys commanded. “We’ll catch up.” 

That was all it took. “You heard her!” Grey Worm called to his troops. “You’ll leave within the hour.” 

With her lover occupied, Missandei went to Daenerys’s side. “Come inside. I’ll fix tea and make you something to eat.” 

Her stomach growled at the mere mention of food. “That sounds lovely.”

Not far away, Arya was still refusing to be assessed. “Check on Daenerys first,” she said. “I’m going to go find Bran.” 

Sansa who had been later arriving in comparison to the others waved her sister over. “Come on then, I’ll take you to him.” 

R-C

She didn’t like the idea of her minor wounds being dealt with before Arya’s, but Daenerys got the sense she wasn’t going to win the argument and relented. “The stitches are holding,” Sam said after reviewing her work. “Very well done,” he praised, “considering you sewed yourself.” 

“Thank you,” she responded with a slight smile. “I just asked myself what you would do.” 

He blushed crimson. “Arya says you’ve been sick as well?” he clarified. 

“We didn’t have much food,” she explained. “I’m likely just hungry.”

“When did the illness begin?” he queried. She told him how she’d been sick first in the cave and then outside it. Whatever he was thinking, she seemed to validate his opinion. 

His thick fingers checked her forehead for a fever and then tested the pulse in her neck, just as Daenerys had done to Arya. When she thought he was through he surprised her by placing a hand on each of her hips and feeling for something. Then after a moment, he moved both hands to her stomach. “Are you and Jon…” he stopped abruptly and changed his approach. “Is it possible you… you’re pregnant?”

Was it possible? She supposed so, although she thought it unlikely. She hadn’t been with Jon since Arya first returned from King’s Landing. She vowed she never would be again and now this? 

The door opened and Missandei carried in a cup of hot tea and a plate filled to the edge with fresh fruits and cheeses. In the hall, Tyrion, Jon and Jorah all waited for confirmation she was healthy. Any hope they hadn’t overheard the conversation she was having with Sam disappeared when she saw their faces. Tyrion looked a strange mix of uncomfortable and pleased, Jon was so shocked his mouth hung open as he stared straight ahead and Jorah a man who had loved her longer than the other two had known her appeared saddened. Her relationship with the knight had never been more than friendship but Daenerys knew he would gladly fill Jon’s role, or Arya’s if given the chance. It was why she was careful to spare his feelings whenever she could by avoiding certain subjects. If she was in fact pregnant as Sam suspected, it would be impossible to hide, eventually everyone would know, including Jorah, Jon and Arya. 

“Is it possible?” he asked again when she was too lost in her mind to answer. 

With the door open and too many ears listening she chose her words carefully. “I suppose.” 

“It would explain your elevated temperature and your sickness.”

“Are you sure it isn’t my blood?” she wondered. 

“How long has it been?”

She knew what he was asking. “A few weeks.” 

“Any bleeding?”

If she hadn’t been so stunned, she might have been embarrassed by the questions or the men listening in, but she wasn’t thinking clearly. As such, she answered honestly. “No.” 

The round man smiled. “Congratulations.” 

Having set down the food and drink Missandei smiled warmly and pulled her in for a hug. She as well as anyone knew how badly Daenerys yearned for a baby. She knew what she’d sacrificed for the chance. It didn’t seem real. She was going to be a mother. 

Missandei’s movement brought Jon to action. He went to her and smiled awkwardly, leaning in for a quick kiss. She wanted to refuse him but couldn’t. Not with so many people watching. 

As Sam congratulated Jon on his new role as a father Daenerys examined her emotions. She was happy, undeniably but it was buried under other, more pressing issues. Would she be a good mother? She hadn’t had a mother herself and knew nothing beyond the basics. Would she learn, or would she pass along all her worst traits to a child she wanted only the best for? Then there was Arya. What would happen next? She finally felt like they were gaining traction, moving in the right direction and now there was a pregnancy to contend with. 

R-C 

She found Bran in his childhood bedroom, looking out the window at the freshly fallen snow. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said as she crossed the threshold, somehow knowing she and Sansa were there. 

Arya went to his side without concern for her pain and knelt down. “Are you well?” she asked. “Sansa told me what happened.” 

She rested her hand on the top of his and he responded by turning his arm over and interlocking their fingers. She glanced back at Sansa and could see the elder Stark was as surprised by the action as she was. Since he’d become the Three Eyed Raven Bran hadn’t been particularly affectionate to anyone. Moments like this were rare. “I’ve recovered, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

Bran’s next word reminded them of just how much was at stake for all of them. “The Night King’s forces are at the Wall.” 

Sansa had told Arya on the way to Bran’s chambers all she’d learned since he returned to Winterfell. That he’d done what he could to reinforce the Wall, and to prepare the remaining members of the Night’s Watch and Wildlings but that it hadn’t been enough. She knew he wouldn’t have gone unless he was certain they couldn’t be saved. “What of the Night’s Watch?” she asked, already knowing the answer. 

“They’re determined and strong but too few,” he predicted wisely. “They’ll hold out as best they can, but it won’t be long now.” 

Remembering what had happened outside she thought she’d ease his worry. “Daenerys ordered the Unsullied and Dothraki to begin moving out. They’ll meet the Army of the Dead long before they reach Winterfell.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, “and many more will die.” 

It was war, unfortunately that couldn’t be avoided. “Yes, they will.” 

“You did well,” he said, catching her off guard with his compliment. “They move slower without the Night King nearby. When he left his main force to challenge you, it bought us additional time.” 

Arya thought back to the battle she’d waged with only Daenerys and Drogon for support. “They have a dragon,” she said in a low voice. “They have the dragon. Something happened. It called to Drogon, we couldn’t stop it. It was a trap.”

“Not a trap,” Bran corrected, “an offer.”

“An offer?” Sansa repeated in disbelief. “What kind of offer?” 

Bran continued to stare out the window. “Viserion called to his brother and offered him a place at the Night King’s side, he refused and defended you.” As she thought about it, she felt in her bones he was right. That explained why they hadn’t attacked them on sight, why the fighting didn’t begin until after Drogon screeched back at the Ice Dragon. 

“Why would the Night King do that?” Sansa asked. “Isn’t one dragon enough?” 

“With two he’d be unstoppable. Not even the combined armies of Westeros could defeat him if he had Drogon on his side.” 

Arya stood straight, aggravating her various wounds. “We need to tell Daenerys. She and Jon need to know.”

“Wait,” Bran said refusing to release her hand. “There is something else you need to know first, the both of you.”

“What?” the sisters asked in unison. 

“It’s about my fall.” 

R-C

As motivated as she’d been minutes earlier to tell Daenerys what they’d learned, to warn her, it seemed insignificant now. Arya bypassed the room where Sam was tending to her and went straight outside. She found Brienne and the King Slayer talking quietly and she seethed. 

It had been Jaime Lannister who pushed Bran from the tower. To keep the secret that he was fucking his sister he tried to murder her brother. She’d been willing to tolerate his existence after what he’d done to Olenna, because everyone said he was necessary. Now she didn’t care the cost. He was going to die. 

She never imagined they’d survive both wars. She always expected he’d oppose her at some point and one would need die, but in a strange way she respected him. He was a fellow warrior, a killer like her. Even after Olenna, if she killed him, she intended it to be quick, one professional to another. Now there was no appreciation, no reservations. 

Podrick was there, as he typically was, near Brienne. He smiled when he saw her, and she knocked him away violently to get to her true target. She struck without warning, ducking her head and colliding with the center of his back. The simple act reopened her stitches but that didn’t matter. If she lived when her work was done, she could recover. Nothing mattered more than his painful death. 

Brienne stepped back to avoid falling too as she wrestled Jaime to the ground. Arya made the most of the unexpected nature of the attack. Pinning him face down on the ground she gripped his golden hair with both hands and used it to slam his face against the ice. She positioned her knee on his arm to prevent him from swinging back. Even still he bucked like a wild stallion to dislodge her. “By the Gods Arya!” Brienne shouted. “What are you doing?”

With only one hand, and flat on his stomach the King Slayer was at a distinct disadvantage. Unlike Olenna, Arya wasn’t an old woman. Unlike Daenerys’s father, she wasn’t going to allow him to sneak up behind her. This time he was the one who wouldn’t see it coming. He who would suffer. The snow under him turned red as she broke the skin. She got in one more blow before Brienne scooped her up and carried her several feet away. The Wolf resisted the entire time. “I’m going to kill you!” she swore. 

Jaime rolled over and sat in the snow, covering his face. He said nothing, looking at her over his fingers as the blood continued to flow out. 

Purposefully situating herself between the combatants Brienne tried to understand. “Why? What’s happened?” 

Spitting in the direction of the King Slayer she prompted him to reveal his secret. “Tell her! Tell her how you pushed Bran from the tower,” she said drawing all their eyes to the high window in question. “Tell her why!”

For the first time the lady from Tarth looked at the beaten man. “It was you?!”

“He saw you fucking Cersei, so you pushed an innocent little boy from the window!” Arya clarified with hate. “You crippled my brother, you prick!”

The mediator clearly didn’t know which side to take. “Arya, Jaime is with us now. He came here to help us. He’s changed!”

“I don’t give a fuck,” she retorted, stalking closer to the Lannister and forcing Brienne to back up to avoid giving her a clear path. “I’m going to drag him to that fucking tower and throw him from the same window.”

Even as she neared him again, he made no attempt to stand. “Arya you can’t!” Brienne objected. 

She wasn’t interested in opinions. Her mind was made up. “You swore to obey both my mother’s daughters did you not?”

Brienne was visibly uncomfortable. “I did, but…”

“Yes, you did, so move out of my way.” 

A firm hold gripped her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. “Arya,” Jon said, “calm down.”

She didn’t want to be calm. In fact, that was the last thing she wanted. It didn’t surprise her that Bran and Sansa had gone to Jon or that he’d rushed out to try and stop her. He was her brother and her King and not even he could change her mind. “Let me go!” she roared. 

“We need him,” Jon whispered next to her ear. He was trying to keep his words private, but Arya wasn’t concerned about that. She didn’t care if the whole of Winterfell knew what she intended. They could watch if they liked. She didn’t give a fuck! “Calm down, please.”

She rebelled against him, trying to get free. Not even Daenerys’s voice from further back was enough to ease her fury. “Arya, listen to him,” she begged. 

In that moment she thought nothing could change her course, but she’d been wrong. Bran’s voice found her through all the others. “Jon’s right Arya. Come with me, we need to talk.” 

Although she was the center of attention, with dozens of eyes on her, Arya looked at one man and one man alone. “You best hope the Night King kills one of us,” she threatened darkly, “because if we’re both still alive when this is over, I’ll deliver you to the Many Faced God myself.”

R-C

Since learning Arya wasn’t dead Jon had heard tales of her exploits, from her and others. She spoke freely of her hate, of her thirst for vengeance and her willingness to kill. He’d watched her training and knew she fought with a tenacity and skill he’d seen in few others. A part of him had always known who she was, it’s why he’d given her Needle before they parted ways. Then she’d wanted to swing a sword in defense of the Realm, for the glory of the King and the honor of her family but that all changed when her father died. 

Seeing the way she fiercely tried to murder the Lannister in a crowd, hearing the venom in her words, he knew she was serious. She wasn’t boasting or talking loudly to cover insecurity. She was going to murder him. If he didn’t stop her, when the Night King was dead, Arya would make good on her promise. He had no doubt. 

He’d always been close to Arya. From the time she could walk, she followed after him, defending him when others mocked him for being a bastard. He would have liked to think it was his words that kept her from killing but they weren’t. If Bran hadn’t spoken up, he’d likely still be working to keep her from the man she’d bloodied. 

After insisting she let Sam check the extent of her injuries he went in search of Jaime. Bran told him what he’d seen in his visions, but Jon wanted to hear it from the man himself. His own anger at the news was nearly as strong as Arya’s, if slightly more controlled. He knew they needed Jaime’s support and skill, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to kill him just as badly as Arya did. 

He found him readying his horse. Brienne of Tarth and Daenerys’s Hand were both there trying to keep him from leaving. “This is a mistake,” Tyrion said. 

“I know where I’m not wanted,” he said, adjusting the length of cloth he had shoved up his nostrils to stop the bleeding. “It was stupid to think I could help.”

“If you want them to see something different, show them,” Brienne urged. 

“Look around!” he resisted. “Does it look like anyone here is interested?” He secured the saddlebag and reached for the reigns. “I’ll always be the King Slayer to them, nothing more.” 

“The war’s still coming,” Tyrion tried. “You can’t run from that. You saw it with your own eyes. You’ll never get far enough away to be safe.” 

He gave his brother a knowing smirk. “Staying here isn’t safe either. I’m not dying at the hands of an angry girl with a scar.” 

Jon stepped into the light and revealed himself. “And what if I could ensure Arya left the past behind her?”

Three sets of eyes found him. “You did a spectacular job of that earlier,” Jaime reminded him fairly. “You might be the King in the North, but she’ll do as she pleases.” 

“I’ll make her listen,” Jon said, uncertain of how exactly he would accomplish that. “I give you my word, if you stay, if you honor your pledge to help us fight the White Walkers, I’ll pardon you and release you when it’s done.” 

“Stay,” Brienne prodded. 

“It’s a good offer,” Tyrion added, “the best you’ll get.”

“Can you keep your word bastard?” Jaime asked. “Can you keep your feisty sister from killing me?”

“I swear it.” 

Looking at Tyrion, he sighed dramatically. “Fine, I’ll stay, but keep her away from me.” 

R-C

“You should have let me kill him,” Arya complained. After the scene in the yard she’d had to endure an exam from Sam. When it was done, Bran repeated his request that they speak alone. She couldn’t refuse. “Why do you care if he dies?” 

“I didn’t do it for him,” Bran explained, staying focused on her rather than staring blankly as he so often did. “I did it for you.”

“For me?” she erupted. “How is it for me if you let him live?”

He countered her question with one of his own. “Do you trust me?”

She didn’t want to answer, she wanted to be angry. “Yes, but…”

“Then trust me now,” he instructed. “You’ll want him alive for what’s coming.”

“What does that mean?” Why was he always so damn cryptic? It was as if he was speaking a different language most of the time. He didn’t answer, and she chose to make her point perfectly clear. “I’m going to kill him, eventually I will.”

Bran gave her a sad, understanding smile. “You don’t need to be upset for me. I’m not.” 

How could he say that? The Lannister tried to kill him! He was just a boy. “If he hadn’t pushed you…” She stopped talking because she wasn’t sure how to finish. What would have happened if Bran hadn’t fallen? Would he be the King in the North in place of Jon? Would he be married to Daenerys instead? Arya didn’t like the mental image that produced. 

“It needed to happen,” he stated simply, as if there was no argument otherwise. “It made me who I am, just as your years at the House of Black and White made you who you are. It wasn’t coincidence or chance Arya but fate. Our paths were chosen long before I fell, or father died.” 

She tried but couldn’t come up with a reply. So, she resorted to petulant anger, like the temperamental child she’d once been. “He hurt you. I’ll never forgive him.” 

“You don’t need to decide now,” Bran said finally looking out the window. “You may change your mind.” 

She wouldn’t. Jaime Lannister hurt her brother, one of the kindest men she’d ever known. Bran might be confident that something was going to happen that would alter her view but for the first time since Arya learned he was the Three Eyed Raven she was certain he was wrong. 

“Tell me,” he said sounding like he was smiling. “What was it like riding a dragon?”

R-C

Winterfell had never seemed so large to her as it did when she was hunting for Arya. Jorah shadowed her as he had since learning of her pregnancy. He was lurking even more so than usual. She’d address that later. For now, she needed to ensure Arya was alright. 

Rounding a corner, she came face to face with Tyrion. “There you are!” her Hand exclaimed. “We need to talk about my sister.”

If they were going to talk, it wasn’t going to be about Cersei. “Did you know?” she demanded. “Did you know Jaime crippled Arya’s brother?”

Tyrion was immediately uncomfortable, though she couldn’t say if it was her question or the fire in her voice that unsettled him. “I did not,” he admitted. “As you’ll recall, I told you that Catelyn Stark once kidnapped me, believing I had a hand in Bran’s accident and subsequent near murder.” 

He had told her that. She bristled under his words. “It wasn’t an accident,” she protested. “Your brother tried to kill an innocent boy.”

“Yes.” 

She held out a hand to silence him before he could say anything further. “Whatever it is can wait. I’m needed elsewhere.” 

“The business with Cersei can wait,” he agreed, “this can’t. I wanted to say congratulations Daenerys,” he said in a low voice, looking suggestively to her stomach. 

His words only reinforced her feeling that she needed to find Arya. She needed to tell her in person before she heard it from someone else. She owed her that much at the very least. 

R-C

As her mood worsened Jorah’s constant presence at her back became more uncomfortable. “I’m not going to drop dead if you leave me,” she spat rudely, glaring over her shoulder. It was unfair, he did nothing to deserve her ire. 

He was openly surprised by her curt words. “I… I only wish to ensure you’re safe Khaleesi,” he told her. “That you’re both safe.” 

Yes, of course he did. Jorah was there when she became pregnant last time and then in the aftermath of her losing not only Rhaego but also Drogo. He saw how devastated she was and how long it took her to heal. “I apologize Ser. I’m just worried for Arya. I can’t seem to find her anywhere.” 

“The Stark girl?” he verified, not realizing just how important that Stark girl was to her. “She went to tend to her brother’s needs after the scene outside.” 

Armed with this new information Daenerys abruptly turned and changed direction. She bumped the knight carelessly with her shoulder as she passed. “You need to be careful Khaleesi,” he said as he chased after her. “You need to think of more than yourself now. The Stark is dangerous. She attacked Jaime and not even Jon could reign her in.” 

“Arya would never hurt me.” 

“You don’t know that,” Jorah disagreed. “You saw her in the yard. She looked capable of anything.” 

From the tips of her hair to the edges of her toes Daenerys was filled with a desire to correct him, to explain that Arya was well within her rights to harm Jaime after all he’d done. She wanted to defend the woman she loved but couldn’t. Not without opening herself up to questions she didn’t have answers for. It was too much work. 

She met Arya on the staircase, the Northerner going down, while Daenerys was climbing up. “Arya,” she whispered, feeling her lips spread into a smile. 

Grey eyes flickered away from Daenerys’s face and settled on the knight behind her. “Daenerys,” she replied, struggling not to smirk. 

“Are you hurt?” she asked, moving a step higher so she could be close enough to touch her. “I saw…”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said. “I didn’t want you to.” 

Daenerys didn’t want an apology, she just wanted to make sure she didn’t worsen her injuries. “I don’t care about that,” she said reaching for and taking her lover’s hand. It was still colored with flecks of dried blood. Daenerys wasn’t bothered in the slightest. “Can we talk?”

Without knowing what the topic would be, Arya seemed capable of sensing the serious nature of the discussion somehow. “Okay,” she said. 

Aware that she wouldn’t be able to do this with Jorah hovering she turned around on the stairs and looked at her oldest friend. “Jorah, can you please find Missandei and let her know I would like to speak with her when she’s got a moment please?”

Daenerys didn’t need Missandei for anything in particular but it seemed like a realistic lie. Mormont was visibly uncertain. Daenerys didn’t share his worry. She knew she couldn’t be in safer company than Arya’s. “Are you sure that’s wise, Khaleesi? What about the baby?”

Mention of her pregnancy had Daenerys spinning on the narrow stairs again, this time rushing to face Arya. She didn’t need to look to know she’d hurt her deeply, it was evident in her voice when she said, “The baby?” She pulled her hand out from Daenerys’s grip. 

The words and the motion caused Daenerys to stumble. Jorah immediately reached out to steady her, to keep her from falling. It took several seconds for her to prepare to stand under her own power again. By that time, Arya had her walls up and her mask in place. “You hadn’t heard,” Jorah said, making things worse. “You’re to be an aunt.” 

She tried to catch and hold her eye, but Arya ducked her head. “Congratulations your Grace,” she said, her words stiff with formality. “I’m sure you and Jon will be very happy together.” Daenerys had never approved of the way Arya said her title, right from the start, but her dislike was reaching whole new depths. 

As she escaped back the way she’d come, it occurred to Daenerys that ‘happy’ was not a word she’d use to describe her current feelings, pregnant or not.

R-C

She sat next to her husband and did her best to act like she cared about what was going on around her. In truth, she couldn’t think of anything but Arya. It had been days since she learned she was pregnant, and in that time, Arya proved more elusive than usual. She wanted the opportunity to fix things, if that were possible, but she’d have to find her first. At Dragonstone, when the assassin was avoiding her, she still saw her occasionally, across the yard, or down a long corridor. Not this time. She couldn’t even manage to spy Arya from a distance, nor heard her voice through a closed door. It was like she vanished.

The progress she’d thought they made, in Braavos and then later North of the Wall, all of it disappeared like smoke on the wind when Arya learned of the arrival of her heir. 

She rejoined the conversation in the middle. “… it’s not a bad idea,” Tyrion was saying, looking to the royal couple for validation. 

“What isn’t?” she asked harshly, not caring that her question would reveal her lack of attentiveness. 

Jon and Tyrion shared a look that only deepened her annoyance. “Yara was suggesting that the fleet return South and secure Dragonstone,” her Hand said carefully.

What? They’d just moved the entire army North. Why would she suddenly agree to send the largest fleet in Westeros back home? “And why would I do that?”

Every pitiful look on every face made her want to strike something. Yara looked confused, bothered by the fact that Daenerys was dismissing her idea outright. Her husband and her Hand were scrambling to cover for her. “It makes sense,” Jon added. She looked sideways at him. She had no idea what he was talking about. “The battle will be inland, far away from the water,” he summarized. 

“You wish to go then?” she pressed the Salt Queen. “To flee when the war is near?” 

The crowd listening murmured in discontent and Daenerys knew she’d made a misstep. “As I said, your Grace,” Yara amended, “I intend to stay, to fight by your side. I was simply suggesting that the fleet may be more useful elsewhere.” 

Tyrion made his feelings known. “We left only a bare minimum of troops behind us to hold Dragonstone. Varys could make use of the reinforcements.”

She couldn’t think about this now. She couldn’t even remember why she should care. “Whatever you think is best,” she said deferring to the others. 

Jon gave her a serious look, not used to Daenerys giving anything without a fight. “A blockade of ships nearing King’s Landing would be invaluable,” Tyrion said, working to smooth out the discord her mood had fostered. “The Iron Fleet could prevent supplies, merchant vessels and soldiers from reaching Cersei’s position.”

At this turn of events the Northern Lords objected. They were bothered by the notion that they needed to risk their lives, their children’s lives, their wives and daughters lives to defeat the Night King while an army as large as the Ironborn retreated to the safety of the South. Daenerys didn’t care. Without a word, she got up and left, needing some air. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: There you go. An heir finally and poor Arya has to hear about it from Jorah. Just when they were getting somewhere. Next up Sansa lays down the law and Daenerys tries to reach Arya one more time before the battle. 
> 
> Thanks for reading


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa felt as though she were reliving a memory of the past as she made her way down the hall. Even from the hall she could hear the angry voices of the Lords loyal to her family. They were once again angry about the way Jon was leading. This time upset by the decision to send the fleet South and not keep every sailor capable of killing for the war. 

While it was true that Sansa didn’t agree with her King’s choice regarding the Iron Fleet she wasn’t going to share that detail. In fact, she’d had just about enough of their whining. She marched into the room as directly as her father would have, feeling more like a soldier than she ever had. “Can I have your attention?!” she yelled, forgoing her manners in a way unbecoming a Lady of her stature. 

Glover was again spurring the others on. “M’lady. We were just…”

“I know what you were doing!” she shouted, surprising them with the venom behind her words. “You are complaining like ignorant children to cover up your fears.”

“M’lady?”

“You think Jon isn’t a good King, you think he’s making poor choices. Tell me then, who would you have replace him? We will be leaving here soon to head to war. Who would you prefer lead us there if not Jon?” 

Unexpectedly it was Mazin who had the courage to respond. “It occurs to me Lady Sansa that perhaps we would have been better suited to choose you as our Queen.”

She hadn’t been prepared for that. She expected her inquiries would be answered with silence. There was a part of her, part she didn’t acknowledge often, that felt entitled to the post of Queen in the North. She was a Stark after all and she’d once been promised to a Prince. Sansa made a distinct effort to push those thoughts away. Reminding herself that Jon had saved her life. She’d never treated him kindly and he still left the Night’s Watch and returned to Winterfell for her. She knew how seriously he took his oath and he broke it, for her. They were much closer now, but she couldn’t deny it felt nice to be thought of as a worthy ruler. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said, ridding those thoughts from her mind. “As I said last time we discussed this, my brother would never force you to fight for him, but I would.” 

“M’lady?” Cerwyn questioned. 

She thought of the aftermath of the Battle of the Bastards and how it was Jon’s mercy and not her wise counsel that saved the lives of children whose families had abandoned them. Sansa had wanted to show strength, to wield power after so long under Ramsay’s boot but Jon had been right. She would have regretted it if she killed sons for the crimes of their fathers. “You heard me just fine.” She folded her arms across her chest and continued, “If I were your Queen I would demand you follow me, I would demand your armies and your stores and if you refused I would have you hung!” Nobody said anything. There was nothing to say, nothing she wanted to hear at least. “Go if you wish, you’re Lords and leaving is your right, but the North remembers, and I’ll remember. Should you break faith with our people now, the next war Stark allies fight will be with you, I swear it on the memory of my father.” It had been a long time since she’d been that furious. She couldn’t believe they were bellyaching about Jon right before he fought a war for them. Lives were going to be lost, hundreds, thousands, maybe Jon’s, maybe not but he deserved better than allies who couldn’t even be grateful for all he’d done. “I’ll leave you to decide.”

She turned to leave as suddenly as she entered and found Tyrion standing in the doorway, his lips slightly parted. She’d never seen her former husband at a loss for words but apparently there was a first time for everything. They walked out together. “I think you learned more about brute force diplomacy than you realized during your time in King’s Landing,” he observed. 

“I may have overdone it,” she said as the realization of her threats sank in. She’d just promised military force without consulting Jon, the true King. 

Tyrion gripped her hand. “You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

That, was definitely not what she thought he’d say next. It took a moment, but she felt a smile cross her face as certainly as the blushing. “Thank you. Did you need something?” she asked, wondering why he’d been seeking her out. 

“Not anymore,” he replied, “unless you want to help me find the wine cellar. If we’re all going to die anyway, there is little point in saving the good stuff for a rainy day, is there?” 

She laughed, a sincere, honest laugh. She couldn’t remember a more innocent sound leaving her lips in years. Tyrion had always had that effect on her. Even in King’s Landing, when she was a prisoner to Cersei, he’d still been able to lighten her mood like few others. “I think you’re right,” she said, tightening her hold on his hand. “Follow me.”

R-C

She was running out of time. In two days the army would leave Winterfell and go North to meet with the scouting parties. They’d wait there for the Night King, choosing the vast open spaces further North over the protection of the castle. Bran promised they made the right decision, and that they wouldn’t have to wait long. 

As the reality settled in, she felt herself both anxious and fearful at the prospect of motherhood. She prayed nightly that she could be a good mother, worthy of the gift she’d been given. Her lack of contact with Arya still stung, but Daenerys did what she could to keep the feelings separate. She could be happy for her child and sad about her relationship with Arya. 

Yara had sent the Iron Fleet back to Dragonstone, ordering them to secure all trade routes and prevent access to the capitol city. Yara, Theon and a group of eager sailors stayed behind, looking forward to the fighting that was quickly approaching. 

As their battle with the Dead loomed over them she noticed the people around her finding comfort where they could. She heard from multiple sources that the brothels around Winterfell had been doing more business than at any other time since Arya’s father was their Lord and the soldiers weren’t the only ones making the most of the limited time. Tyrion spent as much time as possible with Sansa, often telling jokes at his own expense just to make her smile. Likewise, Daenerys could scarcely see Grey Worm without Missandei nearby. When she wasn’t serving the Queen, the advisor stayed attached to his side, afraid she’d never get the chance again. Daenerys could understand the sentiment. She made a point to give Missandei more free time to spend with her lover. If Arya would see her, Daenerys would every available second with her as well. She tried not to feel jealous, but it wasn’t easy. 

She was staring blankly at the coin Arya had given her. She’d kept it close ever since but now Daenerys feared the assassin might need it back. She couldn’t help wondering if Arya would ask for it the next time they spoke. Things had changed between them, irrevocably she feared and that was likely enough for Arya to request the meaningful token returned. 

By the time she realized she wasn’t alone any longer Jon was directly in front of her. “Is everything alright?”

“Just thinking,” she answered, closing her fingers around the iron. 

“About Arya?” he guessed. 

She smiled sadly and nodded. “What were we thinking?” she asked. “We should have known how deeply all this would hurt her. We should have stopped it. You’re her brother and I’m…” Well, Daenerys didn’t know what she was exactly, not anymore. She’d been Arya’s lover until she’d ruined everything by thinking she could have it all, a powerful husband, a child, and the woman she loved. She was a fool. 

“We had good intentions,” Jon remarked.

Daenerys was reminded of the prayer Arya had taught her. ‘I do bad things for good reasons.’ She hadn’t known then just how true those words would become. Usually saying the prayer eased her pain, but not this time. She doubted any words could stunt the loathing she felt for herself and her choices. “They weren’t good enough,” she said more to herself than to him. 

“She’ll forgive you,” he predicted. “When this is done, she will.” 

He sounded rather confident of that. She almost asked him why before she decided against it. “How goes the preparations?”

“We’ll be ready. We could leave today if we needed to, but Bran assures me we’ll arrive at the trenches hours before the Night King.” 

“That’s good,” she said without much feeling. “Why do you think it’s taken him so long?” It had been a while since Bran confirmed the White Walkers had broken through the Wall and decimated the troops there. 

“I suspect he’s stopping at the towns and villages he passes. It slows him but provides more Wights.” 

“Oh.” She shivered, suddenly unsure of what to say next. Jon’s analysis made sense, but it wasn’t a cheerful thought. More dead, more to kill, more swords raised against them. 

“There is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

That didn’t sound good. Very few pleasant conversations ever began that way. “I’m listening.”

“Stay here,” he pleaded without preamble. “We have the armies, we have dragons, one more soldier isn’t going to change things. I think you should remain here.” 

Daenerys was immediately offended. Stay behind? She was a Queen and a Targaryen. She wouldn’t cower behind walls while those she loved fought and potentially died for her. That was something Cersei Lannister would do, not her. “What, why?”

He answered by putting his hand on her stomach. She hadn’t noticed much change yet, but Sam was confident in his diagnosis. “Our people need you Daenerys,” he said softly. “When this is over, they’ll need you to help them rebuild, you and your son or daughter.”

She didn’t miss the distinction he made, and it magnified her guilt. “Our baby,” she corrected, setting her hand on his. “No matter how he or she came to be, this baby will be every bit yours as mine.” She wasn’t sure about much, but Daenerys knew she didn’t want to keep Jon from their child’s life. He was a good man and she believed would be a kind father. She didn’t need to love him for that to be true. 

“Thank you,” he said without moving his hand. Was she dreaming it, or did he sound almost relieved? 

R-C

Since learning Daenerys was pregnant Arya had barely been able to breathe. She thought she’d made her peace with the fact that she’d have to see Jon and Daenerys together in some form. Being in their presence since she returned from Braavos hadn’t been as difficult as she imagined it would be. Maybe it was because Daenerys promised it was over, or maybe it was a cruel trick of the Gods, but she thought she wouldn’t have to leave again. 

During the day she was plagued by thoughts of them together. She imagined the three of them, a happy family; Jon, Daenerys and their baby, with no place for her. It was torture. Arya’d happily take her various wounds from the Wights any day over the images her mind created. Nights were even worse. In the dark the pictures in her mind changed. Instead of a smiling trio she thought only of how the child was made. She pictured Jon’s hands where hers had been so many times, exploring Daenerys’s perfect skin. She heard his name breathed out between pants instead of hers. 

She should be happy for them. She loved them both. She thought of being an aunt to her niece or nephew, trying to take a measure of comfort in the growth of her family but before long, she’d turn bitter. A person like her shouldn’t be around a child. She wanted to be a good person, the kind of person her mother and father would approve of, the kind who could take joy from seeing Jon and Daenerys happy together, but it just wasn’t who she was. She wasn’t warm, generous or selfless, she was brutal and mean. One look at Jaime Lannister’s broken nose made that clear. Making matters worse was the knowledge that Daenerys had made the right choice. She’d been wise to choose Jon, to marry him and conceive a child. He’d offer her a far better life than an assassin could. 

Unable to face the situation she ran, although she didn’t get far. She made it only outside the closed gates of Winterfell to the camps that housed the thousands of men and women who would be risking their lives in the coming days. She hid like a coward so she wouldn’t have to pretend to be happy and so she wouldn’t make everything worse. 

When Theon stopped in front of her and asked, “Are you okay?” Arya wondered if she’d accidentally been speaking her thoughts out loud. How else could he know she was upset? “I heard about Bran and the Lannister.”

She remembered the feeling as she smashed his face against the ice. “I wanted to kill him.” 

He took a seat on the ground next to her. “You’ll have plenty to kill soon enough,” he promised. Sickly the thought cheered her. 

“I’m surprised you aren’t on Pyke,” she commented. “With Yara here, I thought you’d want to stay behind and rule in her absence.”

“My place is with Yara,” he said looking down at the snow. “Where she goes, I’ll follow, no matter what.” 

Arya could understand. She felt that way about Daenerys once. She would have fought the Gods for her. Now she was planning to escape as soon as the Night King was dealt with. How pathetic she’d become. She was jealous of a baby. 

They sat together in silence and Arya took comfort from the fact that she didn’t need to lie. Theon didn’t know about her and Daenerys. He didn’t know about the real reason for the wedding and the baby, he didn’t know anything. 

It was just after sunset when Theon stood up and dusted off his pants. “I’ll leave you to talk,” he said. Arya intended to look up to see who was there, but she didn’t need to when Theon said, “Jon, how are you?”

After a brief exchange she didn’t pay any attention to Theon left and Jon took his place. She didn’t like her chances of things remaining silent. “You’re an idiot.” 

For days her rage had been only barely contained. The promise of violence was her only refuge. If the war hadn’t been so close, she would have gone looking for a fight on her own. They wouldn’t even train with her anymore. Since joining the men outside the walls she’d injured four, pushing them too hard and punishing them for things they didn’t understand. She broke one man’s arm and did damage to the legs of two others. The fourth man, she broke his jaw when he made the mistake of commenting on Daenerys’s pregnancy after a few too many drinks. Now Jon was calling her names. She stood, towering over him and balled her hands into fists. “Go back the way you came,” she suggested, “before I do something we’ll both regret.”

He shook his head. “There isn’t a man in this camp, or anywhere in Winterfell for that matter who wouldn’t love to be you, right now.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What was he talking about? What was so great about her? The question must have been on her face because she didn’t need to ask it to get the answer. “She loves you Arya. If you would talk to her, if you’d spend time with her you’d know that.” 

“Things change!” Perhaps Daenerys had loved her once, but now that she and Jon were married and starting a family there wasn’t room for her. 

“Not love,” he countered. “In all the time I’ve known Daenerys, before she met you and since she’s never once looked at me the way she looks at you. I’ve never once found her staring at something I’d given her, and she definitely never kept Missandei up nights talking about me.”

She really didn’t want to have this conversation with him. “Stop.”

He stood up. “No, I’m not going to stop. You have a woman who loves you and you’re hiding from it.” 

What didn’t he understand? It wasn’t her who gave Daenerys the child she always wanted, it was Jon. It wasn’t her she shared a bed with at night. People weren’t congratulating Arya on her union. Was it really so wrong for her to not want to stand by and watch? “You’re going to have a baby.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling slightly at the prospect. “We are and that’s important but it’s not enough to change how Daenerys feels for me.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arya resisted, “the woman you love didn’t marry someone else!”

The smile was gone now. “No, you’re right. The woman I loved didn’t marry someone else, she died.”

Arya felt dizzy. Did she hear that right? Jon had been in love? He’d never spoken of it, not once in all the time they’d been reunited. “What happened?” 

He gestured for her to sit and she did. Once she was settled he joined her. “Members of the Night’s Watch swear to never marry, to never have children. I meant it when I said those words, I had made my peace with the things that couldn’t be.” He surprised her by smiling. “But I never planned on Ygritte.”

“What was she like?”

Jon’s smile widened but Arya could see it was laced with sadness. How had she not known this? Why hadn’t he told her? “The Free Folk call them Spearwives, warrior women I guess you could say. She was fierce and stubborn and sure, stronger than ten of me combined.” There were so many questions she wanted to ask but she could tell from his face he was thinking of her, so she left him in peace. “She was a Wildling, a member of the Free Folk from beyond the Wall.” At first it was hard to imagine Jon with a Wildling but then she remembered the alliance he brokered between the Free Folk and the Northmen and it was easier to comprehend. “I was sent to learn what I could about them, to spy on them. I was committed, certain I was in the right, until she turned my whole world upside down.”

R-C

For more than an hour she listened to everything Jon was willing to share about Ygritte. When he told of how she died, and how he felt responsible tears burned the back of her eyes. They talked like the brother and sister they’d always been. Arya realized how poorly she’d been behaving. He hadn’t asked for this any more than she had. He was just trying to do what was right, for all of them, just as he always had. 

“You know, I got stabbed in the heart and losing her still hurt more.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking into his eyes so he knew she meant it. 

“It’s okay,” he assured her quickly, just like when they were children. 

“No, not just about Ygritte, I mean for everything. I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “I know what you meant and it’s okay.” Long seconds passed between them where no words were needed. “I know what you think, you think that if you stay away Daenerys and I would fall in love like your parents did but it can’t happen, even if she didn’t love you.” 

She wanted to believe him, to take him at his word, but it still felt wrong. What kind of sister was she if she stole her brother’s wife? “You might,” she tried, forcing the words out against her will. “The baby might change…”

“I’m leaving Arya,” Jon confessed quietly. 

“What? When? Where are you going?”

“I belong on the Wall. I broke my oath but it’s still where I belong. If I want to make amends, that’s where I need to do it.” 

If she hadn’t been so hurt at the thought of losing him again, she might have admired his commitment. “Fuck amends. You can’t leave Daenerys and the baby. That’d be just like…” She stopped herself, but it was already too late. Jon knew what she intended to say. ‘That would be too much like what you thought your mother did to you.’ Jon had always believed his mother abandoned him. He swore that if he had children he would be different. No matter how badly it hurt her, Arya couldn’t let him do that. “No, you can’t go.” 

“When the war is over the Wall will need to be rebuilt, a new Night’s Watch will need to be formed. Someone has to do it,” he explained. 

“Not you!” she resisted. “I’ll go, I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you want,” she bargained hastily. She felt like a little girl again on the day he left to take the black. 

He pulled her close, slipping one arm around her shoulders. “I’m not doing this because of Daenerys or because of the you. I always intended to go back.”

She didn’t believe that. This was her fault. “You’re our King.”

He gave her a sad smile and wiped away a tear she hadn’t noticed. “I’m not. I can’t be your King, but I’ll always be your brother.”

She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t give a horse’s arse who his father was. Jon had more than earned the title and the position he held. He’d earned the respect and admiration denied to him for all those years by so many who thought him unworthy. Who cares what the Lords think? They were ignorant pricks and they’d all be dead already if not for Jon. “You can’t do this.”

“I have to, it’s who I am. If not for the war, I’d have stepped down already. I was never meant to be a King.” Words failed her, but Jon had more. “I swore an oath Arya, I may have broken it, but I’m still a brother of the Night’s Watch, it’s in my blood.” 

“Fuck the oath!”

“You know, being in charge has its perks,” he tried to joke. “I was thinking that in the new Night’s Watch, we’ll have some different rules.” She wasn’t laughing, and she wasn’t going to accept this. There had to be something she could do. She was the one who was supposed to go, not him. “I’ll visit, I’ll get to watch my child grow and spend time with my family. I’ll be around so much you’ll get sick of me, I promise.” 

“I won’t take your life!” she said loudly. She meant it too. She wouldn’t take Jon’s place. It wasn’t hers. She wouldn’t steal from him just to mend her broken heart. Even she wasn’t that selfish. 

He kissed the top of her head. “I don’t want you to, I want you to make your own. Daenerys makes you happy. Don’t waste it.” He kissed her again, hugged her to him and then stood. “I need to go and make sure things are ready for the battle.”

Her vision was clouded by tears. She jumped up with him. “You can’t leave!” she shouted. “We aren’t done talking about this.” 

He smiled kindly, in a way that only made her feel worse. “No, we aren’t. I love you Arya, please think about what I said.” 

Jon was several feet away when she said it back, but she knew he heard because his long strides faltered slightly before he recovered. “I love you too.” 

R-C

“Is anyone sitting here?” a sweet voice asked. She glanced up and was struck by just how gorgeous Daenerys was. She always had been. Her beauty was the stuff of legend, she’d heard about it long before she returned to Westeros. It was even more so now. Arya could only stare. 

She had a steel shield in her lap. Next to her, glistening in the moonlight was a pile of dragonglass. On the fire, glue was seconds away from being ready. 

Without thinking through the consequences, she reached for the pot the glue was in. She instantly burned her hand. She snatched it back, hissing as she glared offensively at the pot. 

“Let me,” Daenerys said picking it up without fear of being burned. “Where do you want it?” she asked, while Arya blew cool air on her fingers. 

Her head cocked to the side. “Right there is fine.” Daenerys obliged. “Thank you,” Arya said after the glue was set down. Unlike the last time they spoke, she worked to keep the malice from her tone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, holding up a shard of dragonglass. 

Arya let her actions speak for her. She applied glue to the outer rim of the shield and then felt around for the glass. Realizing what she wanted Daenerys hurried to hand over the piece she was studying. As their fingers grazed Arya’s eyes left her work and locked on Daenerys. 

Arya broke the contact first, focusing solely on her shield. When she was ready for the second piece of glass Daenerys had it waiting. “Here you go.”

She took it but not before saying, “You don’t need to do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

Grey eyes rolled. “You’re a Queen Daenerys. I’m sure you have better things to do than help me make a shield more deadly.”

Daenerys smiled. “Is that what we’re doing? I wasn’t quite sure.” They worked in silence as one by one shards of razor-sharp dragonglass were bound to the edge of the shield. “This will help you in the battle?”

Although the shield was only a fraction complete she stood up and called for one of Mormont’s men. “Try and take my head,” she instructed him calmly. 

As soon as she realized they were serious, Daenerys wanted to intervene. Before she could the man had his sword out and was swinging. Arya raised the shield to block and once she did, she went on the offensive. A kick to the inside of his right knee had him unsteady. Slamming the face of the shield into his chest sent him onto his back. Arya jumped. As she descended she spun the shield and ensured the section with glass came down right against his throat. 

Moving back, she offered a hand to her training dummy to lift him. Daenerys watched in wonder. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a shield in quite the same way again.” 

Arya reached down and picked up a dragonglass fragment. “If this can kill them, I want it on everything I touch.” When she finished she let the glass slip through her fingers back to the ground. 

“Can we talk?” 

That was a bad idea. She was still coming to terms with Jon’s admission, still blaming herself. Talking about the war, about her shield, or dragonglass was relatively safe but discussing their relationship or her feelings was treacherous and risky. 

Knowing that, it was still hard to refuse her. She shrugged and adjusted the shield. “I guess so. I have to let the glue set anyway.” 

“This is all my fault,” Daenerys began. “I try to think back, to remember what I was thinking, and I can’t. It doesn’t make any sense. I couldn’t really think we’d…” she trailed off. “I couldn’t expect you to stay after the wedding, could I? it seems so obvious now.” 

Daenerys wasn’t the only one who needed to apologize. She’d been acting like a child, hiding away, avoiding her, refusing to talk to her. If her parents were still alive they’d be disgusted with her behavior. “If I was a better woman,” she whispered staring at the dragonglass and nowhere else, “maybe I could’ve but I’m not.” She looked up to meet violet eyes and told the truth. “I’m not good, not anymore.” 

“I don’t care,” the Queen said gripping her hand tight. “Good, bad, perfect, terrible, I love you all the same.” 

She knew she should say it back. This could be her last chance. The war was coming, and Arya was going to be in the thickest part of the fighting. She didn’t plan to die, didn’t want to, but it was hard to imagine surviving. Even with all of that on her mind, she took the coward’s way out. “Are the dragons ready?” she asked, changing the subject and reclaiming her hand. Although the main purpose of the question was to distract, she truly wanted to know. They’d have little chance of success without Drogon and Rhaegal in the sky above them. 

“They are,” she confirmed, struggling to cover her disappointment at the shift in conversation. 

Arya did her best to smile. “When you’re up there, burn those fuckers for me, please.” 

The Targaryen nodded, swallowing hard. “You aren’t going to ask me to stay behind?” 

Arya hadn’t expected the question. “Why would I?” she wondered without thinking. 

Daenerys put the hand Arya had been holding earlier against her stomach, “Jon, Missandei, Tyrion, Jorah they all want me to stay behind, to stay safe.” 

She shrugged in reply. “On Drogon’s back is safer than most places I suppose. If I asked you to remain with Sansa, you wouldn’t.” There was no doubt about that, Daenerys wasn’t the sort to hide. 

“You’re probably right and I promise,” she said going back to Arya’s earlier request. “I’ll burn them all. You just make sure you get out of the way before I do.” 

“No matter where I am, if you get a chance to burn the Night King, you do it!” she insisted. 

“I won’t kill you!” Daenerys countered, visibly frustrated. 

“Don’t be stupid. You saw how many of those fuckers are out there. We need to kill as many as we can, as fast as we can.” 

“I won’t kill my allies to win,” she said wringing her hands together as she fought to control her temper. “If I did I’d be no better than Cersei, no better than the Night King. If you die…” 

“So, what?” Arya snapped. Apparently, the topic of the war wasn’t safe for them to talk about either. “It doesn’t matter. I’m one woman. You should burn the whole fucking lot of us.”

“I could never…”

“If the Night King wins, the world your son or daughter is born into is one that none of us want. If the chance comes, don’t hesitate, not for me or anyone else. Do what’s right, what’s good for your people. That’s why you’re the Queen Daenerys.” 

Daenerys went for her hand again. Arya tried to keep it separate. Her anger would be harder to maintain under the Dragon’s touch. “One woman or not, I still love you. You can hate me for what I’ve done, I deserve it. Whether you die in combat soon or years from now in your bed, I’ll always love you.” 

Not trusting the mask she wore to remain in place, she covered her face with her hands. “I don’t hate you,” she said against her palms. “Things would be much easier if I did.” She couldn’t do this. She was still wrestling with Jon’s plan for after the fight. She wanted to confess that she’d feel the same way for Daenerys, no matter who she was married to, how many children she had or how far apart they were, but the words wouldn’t come. Admitting the truth now would be too much like replacing Jon and she remained opposed to that idea. “You should get back inside,” she said as she prepared to leave, “the cold likely isn’t good for the baby.” 

She didn’t look back, not at Daenerys or the discarded shield. Not even the Queen calling her name could slow her pace. She needed to think and there was only one place left Arya could do that, the Weirwood Tree. Perhaps the memory of her time there with her father would provide some guidance for what she should do. It was a long shot, but Arya could hope. 

R-C

Once Arya was gone, Daenerys had little reason to stay in the soldier’s camp. In her mind she repeated Arya’s words. “I don’t hate you. Things would be much easier if I did.” If she was telling the truth and Daenerys had never known her to lie, it would confirm what Missandei had told her not long ago. It would put Arya’s actions since she returned in a whole new light. 

Casually as if nothing was wrong she went to the shield and picked it up. Acting as if she couldn’t feel the eyes staring at her, she gathered up the dragonglass and the pot of glue. When she had everything, she walked from the camp as though she’d done so everyday for the last hundred years. 

She sat on a neatly made bed, with an awkwardly large shield over her legs. With steady hands she placed glass to the edge in a threatening manner for a woman who might or might not despise her. Even after seeing Arya’s demonstration she still doubted she was doing things correctly. She hoped she was, she wanted Arya to have every possible chance of returning alive. 

Behind the locked door, completing the task that Arya had forsaken, Daenerys thought she’d have privacy. She was wrong. Knocks came frequently, then worried voicing calling through the door to check on her. She didn’t answer, not Missandei, Jorah, Tyrion or Jon. She just kept gluing. It was late when the last offer came, a bribe from Missandei of food, drink and someone to listen. Unlike usual, Daenerys wasn’t even tempted. It occurred to her there was only one person who could make her open the door before she was finished. She didn’t think Arya would be stopping by for a late-night visit. 

She resisted the urge to sleep until she was done. When she was, the entire outer edge of the shield was lined with menacing looking fragments of jagged glass. Satisfied with the results she set the shield next to the fire, hoping time would harden the glue even further. She didn’t want Arya put in danger because she was a poor craftsman. 

After crawling under the covers to rest, she was out almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. But not before she whispered her love for Arya one more time. 

R-C

Arya left her tent when the first hints of sunrise were beginning to brighten the sky. The air was frigid but crisp in a way she never experienced anywhere but the North. She was usually one of the first awake, it gave her time to clear her thoughts before the crowds formed and it became loud. She expected it would be noisier than usual, everyone was almost certain to be filled with nervous energy. Only one more day before they began to march. 

She returned from taking a piss just as Daenerys arrived. The Queen looked uncomfortable as she crept through the camp quietly. Her focus to keep from waking anyone wasn’t what held Arya though, rather it was what she had in her right hand. The shield she’d given up on was finished, a complete ring of dragonglass looked sufficiently deadly. 

They met near a fire that had recently been lit. Fresh wood crackled as it burned, and smoke rose. “You didn’t need to do that. It’s beneath a Queen.” 

Daenerys looked amused by the comment. “Do you not use squires in the North?” she tested. “Is it not beneath a Princess of Winterfell, to modify her own gear?”

She knew Daenerys was trying to get a reaction and it worked. She hated being referred to as a Princess and she knew Daenerys was aware, she’d told her so more than once. She took the shield from her former lover and spun it dramatically, causing the glass to blur as she increased the speed. “No one else I could trust to get it right,” Arya replied, needing more effort than usual to keep from smiling. It reminded her of the time she’d spent with Daenerys before everything changed. She made the assassin smile more than she had in all the years since her father died combined and she did it with ease. “At least until last night,” she amended with a lift of a dark eyebrow. 

For an instant their expressions mirrored each other as they both wore cocky smirks. “Fair enough.” 

Arya’s expression turned serious. She stopped spinning the steel and ran her finger over a rough piece of dragonglass. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. 

“You’re welcome,” she said with feeling. “I couldn’t very well have you risking your life with inferior goods.”

Daenerys’s kindness and the way she expertly avoiding bringing up Arya’s actions the night before, left her feeling as if a simple thank you wasn’t enough. “I’m sorry about yesterday, I shouldn’t have left like that. I was being childish, again.” 

She watched closely and didn’t see a hint of judgement on her face. “It’s alright. I can wait, take all the time you need.”

That was just the point wasn’t it, or one of them at least. Time was running short. She could be dead soon, her body burned to prevent her from coming back as a blue-eyed Wight. She didn’t want to leave Daenerys with the impression that she didn’t care. Before she lost her nerve or logic reminded her why she shouldn’t, she grabbed Daenerys’s hand and laced their fingers together. “I should have stayed last night. I should have told you that I don’t hate you, that I could never hate you. I should have told you that loving you just might be the one thing I’m certain of anymore.”

Daenerys had heard enough. While Arya struggled to organize her thoughts in a way worthy of the woman she loved, she was startled by the feeling of warm lips against hers. She kissed back fiercely after only an instant of hesitation. Even without having everything figured out, without knowing what would happen next, it was hard for Arya to find guilt as Daenerys’s tongue worked its way into her mouth. She’d definitely missed this. 

She didn’t need a mirror to know she wore a stunned expression as Daenerys leaned back. “Me too,” she said after a chuckle. 

Arya fully intended to drag Daenerys into her tent and fill what could be her last free day with as many pleasant memories as she could, but before she got the chance she heard snow crunching nearby and saw Daenerys’s loyal protector hunting for her. “Your knight seeks you.”

Daenerys turned around to see for herself and sighed heavily. Arya slithered her arms around her waist and pulled the smaller woman against her chest. Daenerys purred in reply. “He can wait,” she said, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. 

With limited time before they were noticed Arya dropped a quick peck on Daenerys’s lips that was entirely too short. “Go,” she said, releasing her. “It might be important.” 

“I doubt it is.” 

“I’ll find you later,” Arya bargained, “I promise.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Daenerys vowed as she smiled wide. 

“I very much hope so.” 

R-C

Leaving Arya after that kiss was difficult but Daenerys was a Queen and as such had duties that required her attendance. Calling the remainder of her day busy would have been a disservice to all the other busy days she had recently. It was maddening. From the time Jorah found her, she had a long line of people who wished her attention. She spent hours at Jon’s side in meetings of military strategy, standing over a map pointing out to each of her commanders where she expected them to be. She would have forgotten to eat had it not been for Missandei bringing her food and telling her plainly eating would be ‘good for the baby.’ In the afternoon Tyrion read her Varys’s latest raven from Dragonstone, confirming that her home remained safe. She was glad to hear that, there was more than enough happening in Winterfell to keep her without fear that her home might fall to her enemies. Late in the evening, when it was clear she was worn down and exhausted Jorah seized an opportunity, trying one more time to convince her not to risk her life. He failed and that was when she decided she’d had her fill. “I’m going to get some rest!” she said to everyone in the room. “I suggest you all do the same. Tomorrow will be busy for us all.” 

Missandei had gone to get her tea and while she thought it sweet Daenerys predicted she’d be asleep long before she could taste it. Inside her chambers she turned immediately to the desk and began to remove her jewelry. Her shoulders sagged, and the bed called to her. “Need help?” Jumping, she turned quickly in the direction of the sound. She would have fallen if a pair of strong arms didn’t flash out to catch her. “Easy now,” she said in a seductively soft tone. 

The familiar calloused hands on her bare arms were enough to ignite her blood and remove all traces of exhaustion from her body. “You’re here,” she said in wonder, stating the obvious like an invalid. 

“I did promise I’d find you, didn’t I?”

She couldn’t control her smile. “Yes, you did.” 

The same arms that caught her, continued around her hips to the curve of her ass. Daenerys moaned lewdly. Popping up on her toes for a kiss Arya ducked her head to accommodate the request. Their lips met with even more passion than that morning. She did her best to mould her body to Arya’s, to maximize the contact but as successful as she was it didn’t seem like enough. 

“You had a long day,” Arya reminded her as they both gasped to refill their lungs. “You must be tired and sore.” Her words were accented by a hand tracing her spine then brushing her hair to the right, over her shoulder. With the other strap of her black dress exposed Arya connected her mouth to Daenerys’s neck and began to tease her. The strap didn’t remain in place for long. “Let me help you relax,” she said in a whisper just before she captured Daenerys’s earlobe in the wet heat of her talented mouth. She was glad Arya was there, with one strong arm around her, because if not, she surely would have collapsed. 

They were in that position when Missandei returned with her tea. “I’m so sorry, your Grace, there was a long line in the kitch… Oh!” After the initial surprise a more understanding response followed. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she hurried to say. Setting the cup on the corner of the desk she hurried for the exit. “I’m so sorry, your Grace.” 

Turning around to press her back into Arya’s chest she tried to cease the needless worry. “It’s alright Missandei. I wasn’t expecting Arya to be here either.” 

Upon hearing this Arya finally broke contact with her, raising her mouth from her self-appointed task. “I could go if you’d like,” she offered, very clearly teasing. 

“Oh no!” Missandei answered, not realizing the joke. “I’ll go.” 

Daenerys was glad she had people like Arya and Missandei in her life. They brought her joy and laughter even on the eve of a war. Daenerys couldn’t recall many times when she’d seen her advisor so flustered. She was nearly as unflappable as Tyrion. “I won’t require anything else tonight Missandei,” she said while Arya returned to work on the crease of her neck. “W…why don’t you go, mmm, go and find Grey Worm. I’m sure he’d like to spend some… Gods… extra time with you,” she stammered, barely able to get the words out without moaning again. 

Looking up she glared at Arya in what she hoped was a threatening manner, but if the Northern woman’s expression was any indication she wasn’t quite as dangerous as she thought she was. Truthfully, she couldn’t even find it in her to be embarrassed. She was too glad Arya was with her. 

“Of course, your Grace, thank you.” Before she left Missandei caught her heavily lidded eye and smiled. It was a gesture Daenerys found herself copying. 

The door had barely closed before Daenerys was torn off her feet and laid over Arya’s shoulder. “Seven Hells,” she complained as she carried the giggling Queen to bed. “I thought she’d never leave.” Daenerys loved her friend, but she couldn’t disagree. 

She remained under Arya only briefly before she reversed things. She caught her Wolf by surprise, evidenced by the strangled moan Daenerys heard as she rolled them. Strong hands reached for her breasts from the bottom and she was tempted to let them reach. At the last moment she gripped Arya’s wrists and guided them above her head. She’d longed for this, she’d dreamt of it and now it was happening. It was her turn to be in control, her turn to lavish Arya with attention and drive her to the brink with more pleasure than she could handle. She kissed her deeply and then bit her bottom lip as she pulled away. With anyone else she might have feared hurting her lover but not Arya. Her instincts were proven right when grey eyes lit up with unmasked desire. “My turn,” Daenerys warned wickedly, voicing her thoughts before she started in earnest. 

R-C

 

The next morning Daenerys reluctantly left Arya long enough to bathe and then dressed in black armor made just for the occasion. The thick plate was accented by blood red, similar to her banners. A fire breathing dragon was engraved on the front. Upon seeing that she was hurt after her last encounter with the White Walkers Jorah and Tyrion had the best armor available fitted to her size. She felt foolish as she tried to get it settled on her frame. She wasn’t a warrior and no armor would change that, no matter how impressive it was. “I look ridiculous,” she said to the lazy woman still lying naked on the bed where they’d spent the night. 

Arya’s closed eyes snapped open and she smiled. “Ridiculous is not the word I’d use,” she said throwing her legs over the side and finally getting up. 

“Stupid then?” Daenerys tried as she squirmed under the steel. 

She was off the bed quicker than Daenerys would have thought possible, coming to stand behind her. With an expert touch she lifted the breastplate slightly and adjusted its position. Once it was done, she felt Arya’s mouth find the side of her neck, a space Daenerys knew was already marked from the night before. “Gorgeous,” she mumbled between kisses, “beautiful, perfect.” 

Daenerys melted both under the words and her lips. This was her favorite time with Arya, when she was free and completely unburdened by the pain of her past. Daenerys had little doubt few got to see this portion of Arya’s heart. It was a privilege. 

Aware that it was only a matter of minutes before someone came looking for her, she twisted and rose up for a kiss. They had a long, hard ride to get to the trenches and it was inevitable that someone would fetch her soon. One little kiss, too brief in Daenerys’s opinion and it was enough for her to consider postponing their war until tomorrow, or the next day. 

While they kissed Arya felt around for something nearby. Daenerys didn’t know what, and she didn’t care. When they separated Arya stepped back and held out the Valyrian steel sword Daenerys would wear. The same weapon she’d used to kill White Walkers and Wights once already. “Now, you just need this,” she said as she wrapped the belt around Daenerys’s waist. With the upmost care she adjusted it, making sure it was well within Daenerys’s reach. “There, you’ve got everything.” 

“Not everything,” Daenerys disagreed, taking a step forward when she thought Arya intended to back away. “Not you.”

She smirked. “I’ll be right out,” she announced. 

“You’re not even dressed,” Daenerys reminded her, although as she took in her lover’s body, she was hardly upset by this. 

“I’ve had a little more practice putting on my armor than you,” she said without any bite to her critic. “It won’t take me long.” 

Daenerys stole one final kiss. “I could wait,” she offered. 

She got a playful nudge in reply. “Go Daenerys. Everyone is waiting for you.” 

“And I’ll be waiting for you, so you best hurry.” 

She was only teasing, trying to see Arya’s smile one more time before she left, but she took the words seriously. “I’ll be there.”

There was one more thing, but Daenerys wasn’t sure if she should bring it up. She still held Arya’s coin, the coin of the Faceless Men. She wanted Arya to have it in case the worst happened, but she didn’t want to make it seem as though she thought the Northern woman wouldn’t endure. She’d heard for years from all of the fighting men in her service that it was important for every soldier to believe he would live, especially when the odds were against them. She also didn’t want Arya to think she had Daenerys’s permission to die. She absolutely did not. 

Her internal debate must have been visible on the outside too. “Whatever it is you want to say, you can tell me after.”

“Okay then,” she agreed, pledging to keep the coin safe until the war with the Night King was through. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: There you go. They wait until the last moment, but with a little nudge from Jon they find their way back to one another. Next up we’ve got a war to fight. I think it’s the largest chapter of the lot. 
> 
> Until then, thanks,  
> RC


	15. Chapter 15

When the trenches came into view she was at Jon’s side. Many were already waiting for them, having been sent out days and hours earlier to prepare. Upon reaching her destination she dismounted the horse and slapped it on its rear quarter, startling it and sending it running in any direction it chose. “You aren’t fighting on horseback?” Davos asked. Like Jon he wore heavy armor, a distinct difference from the high-quality leather she had under her common clothes, coat and furs. 

“It would only get in the way,” Arya explained confidently. “I’m better on my feet.” 

She knew Jon and most of the commanders would never decide as she had. They intended to stay on their war-horses for as long as possible. She could see why. They’d been trained for it, plus, it gave them extra height, extra separation for when the ground was saturated in Wights. On a battlefield so large, it also made it possible for those with the skills to turn the battle at key moments to travel further, faster than they ever could on foot. Lastly, a stomp or kick from a horse would hurt the Dead as surely as it would any man or woman on their side. 

“Are we ready?” she asked Jon. He’d had a Valyrian Steel blade inserted into the base of the sword Lord Commander Mormont had given him. He wore it on his back while from his belt hung two knives each with dragonglass for the blades and an equally rough-looking dragonglass hatchet. It also made her happy to see he wore the medallion she’d given him openly, on the outside of his armor. 

He smiled at her, as if it wasn’t likely they’d both be dead before day’s end. “The trenches are dug, and the wildfire is being poured as we speak.” He pointed, and her eyes looked out to see six different groups carefully setting the volatile liquid into their traps. “The Dothraki bowmen apparently fought to determine who would have the privilege of igniting it,” he said shaking his head as he imagined the strange custom. 

Strange or not, Arya would have bested a man the size of the infamous Khal Drogo for the chance to be considered. She wasn’t even that good with a bow, but that was a minor detail. “They do know they’ll likely be killed when it explodes right?” 

“They do, and they don’t seem to mind.” Arya’s admiration for the savages doubled. They both watched in silence for a few minutes. “I think we’re ready,” he said, “as ready as you can be for something like this anyway.”

“Father would be proud of you,” she told him. “He couldn’t have done better himself.” Under other circumstances she might have enjoyed the stunned look on his face, but she was serious, and she wasn’t finished. “Not even father and Robb together could have accomplished what you did. You brought the whole North together, you won back our home and now you’re going to save the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from a fate worse than death.” 

Jon was visibly touched by her comments. “He would have been proud of you too,” he said, ruffling her hair playfully. “I never would have thought of using wildfire and trenches as you did, no soldier would. If we are to have any hope of winning at all, it’ll be because of you Arya.” 

She rarely disagreed with Jon, but this would just need to be one of the few. Her father wouldn’t be proud of her. After all she’d done, she’d shamed him so many different ways, she lost count. She regularly begged for his forgiveness when she was under the Weirwood Tree. She hoped that he remembered her as she was, and not the thing she’d become after he was gone. It was one of her greatest wishes that before she saw him again, if she did, that she’d have the opportunity to redeem herself. It was unlikely. It would take a monumental act to right her misdeeds. Maybe this was it. Maybe today was her day. 

The sky was a clear blue and although it was cold, the sun was shining. It was a good day for thousands to die, if there was such a thing. She was chatting casually with Yara and Theon when she noticed the darkening. She looked up and felt the first gusts of blowing snow on her face. They had come. 

She hurried back to Jon and arrived just as the soldiers on the frontline got their first glimpse of their enemy. “By the Gods,” one Northman said, “look at them all.”

Jon turned his horse and rode in front of the troops from Winterfell. “I know you’re frightened!” he shouted loudly, “and that’s okay. That is what separates us from them! Many of you fought bravely for me before, you helped me reclaim my home from the Boltons against terrible odds. I need that bravery now. Your wives, your sons, your daughters, your grandchildren and generations to come will all hear of what we accomplish today. Men and women who have never met us, never set their eyes upon us, or spoken to us a single word will tell your stories with pride.” He went further down the line and kept talking. The men responded, raising their weapons and calling Jon’s name while stomping their feet. “The White Walkers were things of stories.” Despite their situation he managed a laugh that sounded real. “Noble, bastard or common we were told, ‘don’t quarrel with your siblings or the White Walkers will get you… eat all your vegetables or the White Walkers will come.’ We’ve all heard the tales; a White Walker kidnaps a baby from his bed in the dark of night, White Walkers attack a lost Northern traveller, turning him into one of their Wights. They were true,” he admitted clearly, “and we were wrong to discount them but there is one more story I want you to remember. Remember that they have come before, and they were beaten before. Our ancestors defeated them in the War for the Dawn and the Long Night ended. If they did it then, we can do it now!” 

Arya joined in the chanting for her brother and he smiled fondly when their eyes met. Further away she saw Yara giving a similarly impassioned speech to her troops. The assassin worked her way closer, so she could overhear. “… we do not sow!” she shouted. “We are Reavers!” She yanked hard on the reigns and brought the horse up off his front legs. “These things do not fear us because they think on land, away from our ships we are weak. Today we show them how wrong they are!” 

Similar motivation was taking place in various languages as Grey Worm and other Unsullied commanders spoke in Valyrian and the Dothraki did the same in their guttural tongue. 

Under Jon’s leadership they were ready. The Wights hadn’t stopped, they were still coming, inching their way toward the traps that would spring their deaths. Arya did a quick count, trying to estimate the size of the opponent and quickly gave up. “Fuck that’s a lot!” She’d barely survived her skirmish with only a small fraction of this number. This was something else all together. 

Jon didn’t look away from the danger. “All the men on the Wall, the Free Folk, and Gods knows how many towns and settlements between the Wall and here. They could have added thousands.” 

Arya had yet to see Daenerys, but that wasn’t strictly speaking a bad thing. Seeing what awaited them, she couldn’t help wishing her love would stay as far away as possible. As the first Wights neared the first trench Arya was eager to get started. “Hold!” Jon ordered. 

Viserion picked then to make an appearance. Flying over the Dead he shrieked to announce himself. It hadn’t been as deafening as what she heard North of the Wall when Drogon and his brother were ‘speaking’ but it was close. As it had the time before Viserion’s presence somehow attracted his kin. Rhaegal appeared first, closing the space in a few strong flaps and stopping in the air above Jon’s horse. Drogon wasn’t far behind. 

The cry that preceded his arrival upset the Wights but didn’t stop them. They kept moving forward, stumbling and staggering into one another as they did. The only clue that Daenerys was there hidden among the dark scales was the speck of silver that she knew to be hair. With obvious unfinished business Drogon went straight for Viserion and fire leapt from both their mouths. Jon hadn’t ordered it, and Daenerys was silent from atop her son, but the war had begun. 

Everyone stared as the beasts did battle. Drogon snapped his strong jaw at Viserion and the smaller sibling swatted at him with his wing. When Drogon tried to burn him again, Viserion only barely managed to avoid it. Seeing the flame prompted Jon to action, as the first Wights were beginning to climb out of the trench. “Now!” he yelled, propelling his horse forward. 

Arya ran at his side for as long as she could, before he pulled away. The bowmen hit their targets and fire jumped from the belly of the trench. Wights burned, they screamed their wordless cries and they died. By the time she had her sword out the Dothraki had already passed Jon, eager to kill something. They screamed just as loud as the dying Wights and swung their curved blades from both hands. 

The first Wight she killed lost his head in a single, clean stroke. The second, his arm. She brought the shield around from its spot on her back and made use of the edge Daenerys helped create. She swung the shield as though it were an offensive weapon, twirling it through the air. She didn’t see it coming the first time she was hit, a Wight found her blind spot and swung. It was a foolish mistake on her part but one she didn’t have to pay for since before he could do any real damage Davos ran him through. They exchanged looks of thanks and then moved on in different directions to kill whoever was next. 

R-C

Daenerys felt like a witness and not a participant as she rode Drogon around the sky. She’d managed to direct a few streams of fire toward the Wights below, helping the people she cared about, but the majority of Drogon’s focus was on Viserion. It took effort just to keep from falling as Drogon avoided Viserion’s large mouth. 

She cursed under her breath when he dipped unexpectantly, slipping under the spot where Viserion waited and coming up beneath him. With her head down to avoid making contact with Viserion’s underside, she almost didn’t see the flash as Drogon bared his teeth and bit. If her eyes hadn’t seen it, the shriek of pain would have given it away. She felt a burst of empathy for the dragon she raised, fully aware his loyalty was no longer hers. Continuing on Drogon pushed them up through the pockets of wind and then delivered a strike with the tip of his tail. It hit Viserion in the side of the face and made flying temporarily impossible. The blow was so hard that Drogon’s entire body rippled in recoil, causing Daenerys to bounce in her seat. 

With separation between the dragons she fully expected Drogon to mount another attack but he didn’t, choosing instead to fall lower. Daenerys got her first good look at the battlefield. It was madness. It was difficult to tell the living from the dead, the screams of each found a way to her ears. She tried to locate Arya but couldn’t, so she looked for Jon knowing he intended to be horseback and therefore was in theory, easier to spot. It took a few moments to find his horse and even longer to find him since he’d abandoned the dying animal. Jon and a group of at least fifteen of his men were almost surrounded. They had their backs pressed together, facing opposite directions to limit the chance they’d be surprised. “Dracarys!” 

She avoided those closest to her allies and aimed Drogon toward the Wights and White Walkers further back. This way, she hoped she could avoid burning anyone fighting for her. 

R-C

Jon had a plan. Kill the White Walkers and the Wights serving them will fall, but it was harder to put into practice than he predicted. There were just too many of them. He killed as fast as he could, barely breathing between strikes and for every Wight he dismembered it seemed two more sprouted up in their place. Arya’s plan to divide the Wights had worked, high flames on three sides prevented many of the Dead from joining their brethren but Jon still felt like he wasn’t getting ahead. He was glad he’d told Arya he was proud of her, told her he loved her before the battle. He didn’t think he’d get the chance later. Davos had saved his life twice already and he feared the tally would be higher before the day was done. 

He saw the White Walker. It was just like his nightmares. He wore a helmet with only the tips of his white hair peeking out. His right hand was empty, but his left held a long spear made of ice. If he could get to him, then maybe he could keep his men from dying. He looked over his shoulder at his friend while he pulled his long sword from the body of another Wight, using his boot to gain leverage. “We need to kill the White Walker,” Jon said, panting between each word. “Make a path!”

Davos looked uneasy with the plan but didn’t delay and for that Jon was grateful. They didn’t have time. Next to him a man named Renson died, gutted by a Wight’s sword. He would mourn for him later, he promised, now he needed to prevent others from ending up just like him. 

Jon, Davos and a handful of other Winterfell soldiers were slowly making progress toward the White Walker. Unafraid, the creature of legend came forward, his bony arm pulled back to ready his spear for a throw. Drogon’s arrival saved both effort and lives. Fighting through the line of Wights four deep, surely would have resulted in casualties. As it was, Drogon spit down on the back ranks, instantly engulfing them in dragonfire. The Wights in front of him looked up to assess the danger and Jon and Davos both capitalized. With grunts of effort they swung their blades. Jon pushed his through two Wights in a single blow, while Davos removed the head of a third. In the chaos he had a small window to reach the White Walker and he wasn’t going to let it close. He leapt through arms that tried to grab him and landed on his feet. He barely got his sword up in time to avoid being impaled. 

Behind him he could hear Davos and the others fighting off the Wights swarming to their leader’s defense. Jon needed to be quick or he’d miss his chance. With his sword ready he let the White Walker make the first move. Jon sidestepped an attempt to skewer him and brought his blade down hard. He purposely avoided the spear itself, fearing it might break his blade and struck instead for his wrist. The hand was already on its way to the snow when it shattered. With a turn Jon prepared for another swing. He intended to take aim at the White Walker’s neck, finishing him forever. Before he could, an unarmed Wight squirmed past Davos and the men and jumped on his back. He stumbled forward, lost his sword and was only stopped from falling by the White Walker’s spear. It struck him in the ribs and would have been a death blow for sure if not for his armor. They struggled over the weapon then, and Jon, tired as he was had the advantage since he had two working hands. The Wight on his back was forgotten as he spent all his attention on turning the White Walker’s spear on its owner. As he shoved it roughly forward into the creature’s chest, the Wight clawing at him dug his icy nails into Jon’s arm, just below the elbow. Killing the White Walker ended the threat, but the damage was done. Jon could feel blood leaking out. Pushing on he made a circle, checking for any who might remain, but only Davos and two surviving members of his family’s army were left inside the fire. He retrieved his sword and then ordered the bodies thrown into the trenches before they moved on. 

R-C

She fought her way to the Greyjoys. Swinging her sword felt oddly peaceful as she danced in a way Syrio would be envious of. When she noticed the Lady Reaper, she was grinning. “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me!” she yelled before she dodged an axe thrown from the center of a large group. 

Arya smiled, ducking under a hand and then removing it. “What can I say, I miss your charming personality!” 

Theon was doing well but had been cornered by a group of four Wights. They’d managed to pin him against one of the trenches, using the flames to prevent his escape. Arya kicked away the Wight she’d been fighting and raced past three others in her hurry to get to him. Yara noticed the same thing, calling out her brother’s name as she approached from the other side. 

Her clothes were largely in tatters, torn from claws, teeth and swords alike. Very few had gotten through her armor, so she was mostly unhurt. A few scrapes, a couple of gashes, but nothing to be concerned with yet. 

They arrived within seconds of each other, forcing the Wights to tend to them before moving on Theon. Three faced the women while the fourth and a late joiner to the party tried to keep Theon in place. 

The fight didn’t last long, but it was fierce. She pushed her Valyrian steel through a Wight’s throat, and kicked away another, but left her side open. It was too rich a target for the Dead to pass up. The sword swung hard and she immediately knew it was past her leather. The burn she remembered from the skirmish North of the Wall was back. She hissed, turning to do battle with the one who’d given her another scar, but it was too late. Yara had cleaved his head from his shoulders. “Are you alright?” she asked, offering Arya an arm. 

She didn’t take it. Instead she whistled and beckoned the remaining Wights away from Theon. Yara stepped forward to aid her, but this one was all Arya’s. Spinning her shield as fast as she could she threw it at one while she dove at the other. Her weight carried them both through the flames. Both siblings yelled after her as she went. It happened just as she intended, with her on top and her sword buried in his chest. 

When he was dead, and the adrenaline dropped, she was overcome by the heat. The fire! It burned her shoulders and back. She immediately tried to put it out, dropping to the snow and rolling. When it was over she took inventory of the wound. Another scar, more pain, but she’d had worse. 

Any hope she had of fighting her way back to the Ironborn was dashed when a White Walker on a dead horse rode straight for her. She rolled under his first attempt, worsening the pain in her shoulder and likely increasing the internal damage. The flames distorted her vision, but she could see that Theon and Yara were practically alone, fighting against another group of Wights who had come to avenge those they defeated. She needed to get back to them. They couldn’t survive long as they were. 

When he turned his horse and galloped for her again, Arya kept her eyes on the skeletal animal and nothing else. If she wanted to even this fight she needed him off his mount. With her hands behind her back as she’d been taught she passed the sword from one hand to the other while keeping it hidden until the last moment. She was going to strike when the White Walker was raising his arm. She’d reach him and be gone before he could lower it, she was certain. Her hand lashed out, making contact with the horse’s ribcage before she rolled away to avoid being trampled. Watching him hit the snow was more rewarding than it should have been. He recovered quickly and if she didn’t know better she might have though he looked angry. 

“Yara! No!” Theon screamed, reminding her of the need for haste. She didn’t know what was happening on the other side of the trench, but she knew her presence was required. She considered going to them and leaving the White Walker but thought better of it. If he was their liege, then killing him would kill all of them too. It was a worthy gamble. 

He was bigger, stronger and likely had much more experience. He seemed to know what she intended as soon as she did and instantly began to counter. Three failed attempts had her upset. When he advanced on her, swinging his sword so fast it was difficult to see, Arya thought her death might be approaching. She’d fight as long as she could, but it was quite possible she met her match. 

It was taking all of her skill, all of her energy just to avoid getting killed. She couldn’t mount offense in her current state. Making matters worse was the knowledge that Yara and Theon were nearly out of time. Another cluster of Wights was making their way over. If she didn’t kill him soon, she never would. With limited options she blocked a strike meant for her heart and then leaned back as far as she could, arching her back. The White Walker followed, as eager to finish their combat as she was. She could feel the icy breath on her face. As he leaned forward to impose his will, he sacrificed his footing. Like her he was leaning too far, but unlike her, he didn’t know what was going to happen. With both hands she tore her sword away from his, the sudden, unexpected act was enough to wobble him just as she’d hoped. Throwing her weight forward onto the tips of her toes she swung her sword straight at his knees, cutting them both. He crumbled but she barely noticed. 

She crossed through the fire as fearlessly as she had the first time but what waited for her there was worse than she imagined. A White Walker and six Wights were situated in a horseshoe around Yara, who had dropped her weapon and was cradling a dead Theon against her. She didn’t appear to notice those coming to kill her. Arya’s options were limited. She could fight her way to the Greyjoys and try and extract Yara or she could kill the White Walker and hope the Wights followed. Neither was particularly appealing, but she’d rather try and fail than do nothing. 

This White Walker was different from all the others she’d seen. He had horns on his head and was naked except for a scrap of cloth over his groin. All over him crystals of ice were clinging to his long white hairs. His chest was practically glowing there were so many. He was thin as most of his kind were, but Arya didn’t delude herself into thinking that would make him weak. 

Drawing her dagger, she held it in her right hand while she prepared the sword in her left. They hadn’t noticed her yet, or if they had, they hadn’t thought she was dangerous enough to warrant action. It wasn’t much but it was likely the only advantage she was going to get. 

She crept toward the White Walker’s back, wanting to be as close as she could before she was discovered. From just feet away her boot cracked some ice and a pair of Wights turned their heads to investigate. They announced her presence. The White Walker spoke in a language she didn’t know, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what he was saying. She struck one Wight with the dagger and pushed the other away with her forearm before she went for the White Walker. He was carrying a staff with a curved head. Like all their weapons it seemed to be made of ice. He swung it and Arya nearly succumbed. Fuck he was strong! 

R-C

From high above the battle it was difficult to see much of anything in detail. She couldn’t tell who was winning and who was losing and even if she thought she saw enough to understand it was likely to change before she could make another pass. 

Her position did afford her a good view of the dragons though. While Drogon was mainly focused on Viserion, Daenerys saw Rhaegal doing what the largest of them couldn’t, burning large groups of Wights with ease, mashing his mouth closed around White Walkers and snapping them in half. 

As she followed Drogon’s whims, chasing after Viserion one minute and then dodging him the next she got a view she wished she hadn’t. Behind the Wights, behind all those killing and dying Daenerys could see scores of White Walkers who hadn’t yet moved. Most on horseback, they waited protectively in front of their King. Her heart sank. Thousands were dying, and the fight hadn’t even begun yet, not really. Suddenly she was paralyzed by her fear. She needed to tell Jon, he needed to find Arya. They needed to change the plan, they were never going to win this way. 

R-C

It was endless. He’d lost count of all those he killed, of all those on his side he watched die, or heard die and still he got the sense they were only in the early stages. Davos had been severely wounded killing a White Walker an hour before and as a result Jon divided his time evenly between protecting him and slaying others. The flames in the trenches were beginning to burn out, and it wouldn’t be long until even their makeshift borders weren’t enough. “Go on!” Davos said, not for the first time. “Leave me damn it!”

“No!” Jon yelled back, swinging his sword in rage more than purpose. He wouldn’t abandon his friend. He’d lost enough people he cared about already. 

“You’re a King for fuck sakes, act like one!” Gritting his teeth in agony as Davos struggled to his feet. Jon immediately began retreating to his side, but by backing away from the fight he only created seconds, not the minutes he’d need to get Davos to safety. “You need to live. Go, before I kill you myself.”

That wasn’t an option. He wasn’t a true King. The Northern Lords would never have chosen him if they knew who he really was. They wanted Ned Stark’s son as their leader not Rhaegar Targaryen’s. “If we die, we die,” he said, engaging with a Wight and slicing him, “but I’m not leaving.” 

After taking another life Jon heard Davos moving. He looked sideways and left himself open to a Wight’s sword. The gash on his hip was deep but meaningless. Davos gave him a tight smile, one that didn’t seem appropriate given the situation. “No,” he said with a chuckle, “you won’t leave me, will ya? I guess I’ll need to leave you then.”

Three more Wights appeared in his face, making it impossible for him to think much about what Davos meant. He looked to his enemy and cut them down quickly, but not fast enough. By the time he looked back Davos was limping toward a trench. “No!” Jon screamed, reaching for him with his empty hand, fully aware there was far too much space between them. He tried to run, but a Wight gripped him around the legs, holding him in place and making him watch helplessly as his advisor, his friend surrendered himself to the fire. 

R-C 

As was rapidly becoming habit, Arya learned she wasn’t good enough, strong enough, fast enough to battle a White Walker without aid. The Wights were relatively easy to kill, albeit time consuming. Their Masters on the other hand were an entirely different story. This one with his carved staff looked almost elderly but after being on the receiving end of several strikes she knew regardless of its appearance that thing was a war-hammer Robert Baratheon would have been pleased to wield. Yara was useless to her, never looking up from Theon’s face and so she’d have to survive or die alone. After a graceless swing that she thought was enough to break him, she hadn’t had time to regain herself. A Wight’s sword cut her on the side of her neck and another tackled her to the ground. The White Walker loomed over her, staff in hand, casually approaching for the kill. Breathing was difficult, her lungs burned furiously. When her blurred vision showed her the White Walker’s bare feet, close enough to touch, she knew what it meant. Closing her eyes, she thought of Daenerys, of her smile, her laugh, her kindness and lastly the feel of her kiss. If she was leaving this world, that was definitely the last thing she wanted to take with her. It was much more pleasant than the face of the man who would murder her. 

The warmth wasn’t at all surprising. She’d long since heard tales of the fires of Hell and so she expected them. What was less predictable to her was the way the ground shook in the aftermath and how the fire stopped, about the same time she could breathe again. Words were spoken she didn’t understand and she couldn’t help it, she looked. She was curious. 

Rhaegal was there, at Arya’s side like an old friend. The Wights were gone, reduced to puddles of melted ice and ash. The White Walker was sprawled on his back, several feet away, out of reach was his hammer-like-staff. She meant to stand, to gather her weapons but at the first bit of movement he detected Rhaegal turned his head and looked straight at her. They didn’t need words for the assassin to get the message. She stayed where she was. 

The dragon stalked closer, not unlike how the White Walker approached her. Like her he was frozen by the dragon’s presence. Arya couldn’t take her eyes off them as he lowered his head and picked up the White Walker as she might a whetstone. With a flick of his wide neck he tossed the White Walker into the air and then tilted his head back further. Arya was mesmerized. His mouth opened, and she watched as the White Walker fell inside. He was swallowed whole.

This time, when Arya attempted to move the dragon didn’t object. After gathering her weapons, she crawled on her hands and knees along the snow to reach Yara. She felt undeniable relief when she realized neither the Wights nor the dragon had killed her while she was disoriented. “Yara, come on we need to go,” she urged, tugging at her sleeve. 

“They killed him,” she said, acknowledging Arya’s words without looking away from her brother. 

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I’ll mourn him.”

Angry eyes met hers. She could see the unshed tears waiting to be released. “I’m going to kill them all,” she promised. 

“Yes, we will,” Arya agreed, “but right now we need to help others.” She tried again to get Yara to stand. 

“He died saving my life,” she admitted. “He died for me.”

Although she hadn’t seen it, she had no trouble believing that. “Theon was a hero, from the moment I met him again, he wanted nothing more than to help you. First to save you from Euron, then so you could be the best Queen possible.” 

Yara stood but wasn’t yet ready to leave her brother’s side. “He always saw the best in me, even if it wasn’t there.” 

“It is there,” Arya said, concerned about the time this was taking. “Be the Queen Theon would want you to be now. Let’s go save lives and kill these pricks.” 

They took three steps away from his corpse before Yara stopped and looked back. “We can’t leave him like that. What if they come and turn him into…”

She couldn’t finish but she didn’t need to, Arya understood. She hadn’t thought about that. Since confirming Theon was dead, she’d been focused on making sure Yara didn’t end up the same. Remembering Rhaegal, she ordered Yara away. “I’ll take care of it,” she promised as she hurried to put space between them and Theon. 

“Wh…”

“Rhaegal,” Arya called in a clear loud voice. “Dracarys!” 

Any questions she had about whether she said the word correctly were destroyed with Theon’s body. The heat of the flame, even from several feet away was intense. He deserved more than being burned without ceremony in the center of a war, but it was a better alternative than letting him come back as a Wight. 

“Thank you,” she said to the dragon. She wanted to say more, but there were White Walkers to kill. 

R-C

The title of ‘dumbest thing she’d ever done’ was a heavily disputed title but perhaps they had a new front-runner. Climbing onto Rhaegal’s back and then encouraging Yara to do the same went beyond being reckless or fearless and teetered on the edge of madness. “No,” the Lady Reaper resisted.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, rubbing the dragon’s neck to emphasize the fact that he wouldn’t murder them. 

“Listen to yourself. We just watched him eat a man,” Yara reminded her. 

That was true. There was little Arya could come up with in terms of an argument. “If he decides to eat us, don’t worry, we’ll be dead before the pain can start.” 

Yara looked at Rhaegal and then the woman who saved her life. “If we get eaten I’m going to be so pissed.” 

She held out a hand in invitation. “Come on. Flying isn’t all that different from being at the helm of a ship,” she lied. 

Arya couldn’t help but wonder if Daenerys’s dragons understood more than they realized. Once Yara was sitting behind her, she didn’t need to yell instructions or coax him into the air as she’d seen Daenerys do, he simply took off, without any prompting. 

It had made such sense on the ground. The fighting had moved East. Hundreds of yards from where Theon died. She wanted to get back into the battle and taking Rhaegal with her would not only increase their chances of survival, but also speed things up considerably. “I hate you!” Yara screamed as the dragon swooped down. She clung to Arya’s armor like a plank in the water. “This is nothing like being captain of a ship!”

Arya enjoyed Yara’s panic for a few seconds until she noticed a group of more than three dozen Dothraki. Dead horses littered the ground, mixed in with the bodies of fallen warriors. Those who survived were completely surrounded. Not just by Wights but White Walkers too. She counted five at least. She wanted to find Daenerys, to find Jon, but she couldn’t just leave them to die and that’s precisely what would happen if she didn’t intervene. She didn’t know how Daenerys could wordlessly direct Drogon from his back, so she settled for pointing. “Dracarys!”

Rhaegal took them lower and hung in the air like the moon, just waiting as he prepared for another attack. The Wights beneath them screamed and scurried, many lighting their partners on fire as they flailed wildly. The second breath of fire was even larger and more destructive than the first. He burned a line deep into the horde and the Dothraki didn’t hesitate. They rushed through it, on horseback, on foot, one man she saw couldn’t even walk, but he crawled, using his arakh as a crutch. 

“Holy fuck!” Yara exclaimed as they killed from above. Rhaegal shook his head and brought death. Flames leapt out from inside him and rained down on the Dead. 

As it happened Arya felt almost helpless. It was strange given that she’d likely never been more powerful. She was on a dragon, directing his fury, but she was meant to be on the ground, swinging her sword. That’s where she belonged. An idea came to her and she quickly put it into action before she could change her mind. She pointed Rhaegal to the lone surviving White Walker in the bunch. From all appearances he seemed to be controlling the Wights not yet burnt. “Hang on tight!” she said to Yara looking over her shoulder at the Ironborn. Her eyes were wide, her mouth gaping, trying to make sense of what she was witnessing. 

With her sword in her left hand, Arya lifted up from her seat at the base of the dragon’s neck. Standing on his back she fought the winds to maintain her balance. Yara understood what was happening but by then she’d gone too far to back down. “Arya don’t!” 

As Rhaegal dipped lower, making another strike on the Wights, she jumped. 

R-C

“We need to retreat!” she yelled to her husband before Drogon had touched the ground. Intellectually she knew her words wouldn’t reach him, but she tried anyway. She’d ordered him to burn hundreds on the way to Jon but knew it wouldn’t even dent the Night King’s forces. 

They were a strange group, Jon, Jaimie Lannister, more than twenty of Grey Worm’s Unsullied, Brienne of Tarth, Jorah and a single bloodied Dothrak. 

By the time she discovered them, they were in heated combat. Jon and the Lannister were fighting back to back, while Brienne and Jorah were trying to secure their flanks. The Unsullied were attempting to build a fence around their fighters but the Wights were too many. Drogon burned large groups, while Daenerys directed him as close as she dared to the living. She was too frightened of burning her friends to truly unleash Drogon’s full potential. 

As she watched Wights burn and men die she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Viserion and Rhaegal. Rhaegal was doing what he’d done since the start, razing the Dead in massive numbers but Viserion who had been aimed in their direction suddenly changed course and flew away. She wondered where he was going but couldn’t waste much time on it. Her focus needed to be on saving lives. 

Flat on his back, Tyrion’s brother looked doomed until Jon kicked a Wight away and jumped over the prone Lannister to stab the White Walker. He tore his sword free of the crumbling body and immediately turned, taking the head of a Wight who tried to claim his back. It bought Jaime time to stand. 

From her position in the air Daenerys could see what Jon apparently did not. A White Walker on a horse, riding in from the left. Brienne cleaved a Wight with an impressive blow and knocked another into a running band of three. She’d heard the woman from Tarth was as skilled as any man, but watching Daenerys realized she was likely better. 

Jorah had a weapon in each hand and was doing what he could to keep up, but even from so far away it was evident he was getting winded. After every few swipes he’d sag slightly, until the next wave got close enough and he’d begin killing again. It was while he tried to regain his breath that the White Walker on the horse galloped past. The knight tried to intercede but was knocked aside by a blow from the White Walker’s empty hand. 

The Unsullied did what they could to slow the White Walker, but he made short work of them, just as he had with Jorah. She yelled again for Jon, but he was too lost in the fog of combat. Too many screams, cries and shouts were coming from all sides for anyone to notice hers. 

She had no idea what it was that made him turn, perhaps he heard the horse coming as he waged war with the Wights, maybe he sensed the presence or it was random, whatever it was, Jon twisted just as the White Walker on horseback raised his sword. Diving out of the way, he knocked Jaime in the back, taking him down too. It was hard to see but the sword was much too close to Jon for Daenerys’s liking. She could only wonder if he’d been cut. 

She took quick inventory of the situation. Jon and Jaime were down, Brienne was busy, Jorah was nearly out of energy and the Unsullied had been decimated. They were only half the strength they’d been when Daenerys first saw them. There was only one way she could think of to help them. “Burn them, not us!” she said to Drogon as she steered him to the White Walker nearest Jon. “Dracarys!”

As soon as the fire was flowing Daenerys urged Drogon to the ground. She needed to see if they’d survived. The flames knocked the White Walker from his mount, burning the animal and a handful of Wights at the same time. To her relief Jon popped up sword in hand and took advantage. He moved fluidly, ending the White Walker and many of the Wights who opposed them nearby. Brienne and the Unsullied made short work of the others, aided by more of Drogon’s breath. Daenerys looked for a White Walker who could be controlling them but couldn’t see any. 

On solid ground she sprinted toward her friends. She arrived at Jorah’s side as he gathered his composure. It was stupid to not warn him, but she was hardly thinking clearly. He pivoted in her direction sword ready. He almost struck a blow before he realized who she was, and the sword fell from his bloody hand. “Khaleesi,” he said, a slight smile on his face. 

She picked up the sword he’d dropped and helped him to where Jon and the Jaime were. “We need to go!” Daenerys told them. “Call the retreat!”

Even with Drogon nearby he seemed surprised she was there. “Daenerys, what’s wrong?”

“We can’t win,” she said, “order everyone to retreat! Have them gather back at Winterfell. We need to regroup.” 

“What? Why?” 

“What are you talking about?” Jaime asked, his hard eyes softening when he noticed Brienne, over Jon’s shoulder. 

“We can’t win,” she confessed. “I saw,” she shook her head and tried to explain. “I saw the Night King, I saw the White Walkers. There are hundreds more of them than we realized. Dozens that haven’t even begun to fight yet.”

“We have to keep trying,” Jon said. “If we don’t…”

“If you keep fighting everyone you love is going to die!”

Her words hit their mark, she could see it on his face, but he wasn’t ready to admit defeat. “If we run, everyone will die.”

“Not today they won’t. You’re the King, order them back to Winterfell,” she instructed with force. While the married couple spoke, Jaime and Drogon eyed one another warily, both likely remembering their last encounter. 

She could tell he was considering it. He looked around at the faces of the men and women around him. “No, we can’t. We need to fight. No matter the cost.” 

Her next attempt was drowned out by the cry of a dragon. Every eye turned to the sky and they all watched as Rhaegal swooped down toward a skirmish happening off in the distance. “Is that…” Jaime started. 

While she tried to comprehend what her eyes were seeing, she felt as if her heart had made its way into her throat. It wasn’t possible. Someone was riding Rhaegal. She couldn’t imagine her dragon allowing anyone to mount him, but apparently, he had. 

“Someone jumped,” Brienne acknowledged. 

“Who would jump from a dragon?” Jaime asked, without looking away from the blur that was rapidly falling toward the snow. 

Daenerys looked to her husband and he responded by reaching out and grabbing her hand. “Arya!” they said together. 

R-C

“This was going to hurt!” she thought as the ground approached. The Dothraki were doing their best, trying to get to the White Walker but their numbers were growing thin. She did what she could to position her sword, but it was difficult without air in her lungs. 

She had visions of leaping from the dragon, landing on the White Walker with her sword ready, killing him before he knew what hit him. It didn’t happen that way. Her aim was true, but that was where reality and planning diverged. The brunt of her landing loosened her grip on her weapon and she dropped it. The White Walker wasn’t enough to break her fall, she flattened him and threw an arm out instinctively. Although she hadn’t heard it snap, she was confident it was broken. Breathing was hard, thinking even more so. The sounds of violence seemed further away than she knew they were. 

If there was any positive it was that the White Walker was in similar condition to her. She’d crushed his legs, crippling him. It left them both struggling to recover. Whoever did first would live, whoever didn’t would die. 

Overhead she heard a dragon and Arya smiled against the agony. Even if she failed, Rhaegal and Yara would clean up her mess. The White Walker would die shortly after her. The realization pleased her. 

Wights closed in, to protect their Master and the Dothraki followed. She tried to reach for a weapon, any weapon, but she was fumbling around without success. Which side of her belt had the dragonglass knife? She couldn’t recall. Why wasn’t she dead yet? 

R-C

The knowledge that Arya had just jumped from Rhaegal into what she could only imagine was dangerous combat propelled her into action. “Get on!” she commanded, to everyone. More than a few people were slow to obey, concerned about the prospect of climbing aboard a fire-breathing dragon, but Daenerys didn’t have time to waste. “Now!”

Drogon knew where she wanted to go and took off quickly. Behind her she heard curses, gasps and exclamations of wonder in various tongues. Her violet eyes were glued to the horizon, to the spot where Arya fell. “She’ll be okay,” Jon said from behind her. He touched her back to comfort her and she bucked it off. She didn’t want to be calm, or rational, she didn’t want to be reassured or coddled. She wanted to make sure Arya wasn’t dead and then she wanted to coat the world in Fire and Blood. 

Daenerys’s heart shattered. Viserion was coming back. The last time she’d seen him he was fleeing but now he’d returned, and he wasn’t alone. His back held the Night King and four of his White Walkers. She tried to propel her dragon faster. Earlier, Drogon had ignored her commands to battle Viserion. She couldn’t allow that to happen this time. Every second counted. 

Two mouths opened at the same time. From one red and orange flames and the other bright blue. They met in the space between, each one trying to overwhelm the other. Drogon broke contact first, taking a hit of the blue flame along the crown of his head before sinking lower and then gliding under his brother’s thick body. Everyone had to duck, Daenerys included to avoid being decapitated by the dragon. Before she raised up again she heard Viserion’s pained cry. It was so much like the one she thought killed him that she had to look. Four weapons were buried into the dragon’s belly. Jon, Jaime, Brienne and Jorah, each making use of their proximity to Viserion. Jon was the only one who managed to get his blade out before Viserion pulled away. 

Viserion’s reply was to snap at his sibling and in the process dislodge two Unsullied from Drogon’s back. As the dragons danced one of the White Walkers lost his perch as well, tumbling to the ground below. Watching them fall, she was reminded of how desperately Arya needed her. 

“Land!” she shouted in High Valyrian, hoping Drogon would obey. “Land! Land!” It became a chant, a prayer. 

After barely avoiding a mouthful of blue fire Drogon took them in, not even coming to a full stop before Daenerys was climbing down. “Daenerys, wait!” Jon tried. 

She knew it was dangerous, she just didn’t care. She ran to Rhaegal, finding her smallest son blocking the Wight’s path to Arya on one side, while Blood Riders did the same on the other. It took her several moments to notice Yara on Rhaegal’s back. How had she come to be there? She ran past the dragon, ducking under his neck to get to where Arya lay. Not long after she passed the dragon bucked suddenly, throwing Yara off and taking to the air. 

With chaos and violence all around them, they looked somehow removed from it all, the White Walker and Arya, in the heart of the madness, barely moving. Daenerys didn’t think, she just did what her instincts told her to. Raising the sword, she hadn’t made use of all day she brought it down hard on the legless White Walker. Once he was dead she fell to her knees at Arya’s side. “Arya, Arya! Oh, please be okay.” 

She touched her face gently and was gifted with a fraction of her typical smirk. “Took you long enough,” she groaned. Awash with relief she laughed and kissed her as hard as she dared. She’d think of an excuse for her actions later, if anyone saw. 

All around them the world was ending. Three dragons did battle in the sky and on the ground Kings and their most loyal tried to end the war with one swing of a sword, one toss of a spear. To Daenerys none of that was important. She had Arya. Arya was alive. “Stay still,” she directed as the Stark tried to sit. 

Grey eyes looked past her to what was happening. “He…help me up,” she said with a grunt. 

“Arya you’re hurt. Just wait a moment and I’ll have Drogon get us out of here.”

She shook her head, passion coloring her sweat soaked face. “No,” she said managing to sit up for the first time since Daenerys found her. “I need to help.” 

She was a Queen and she was powerless to resist. She’d never seen a sight of such beauty as the look on Arya’s face just then. Gritting her teeth in pain, bloodied and still so passionate. “Okay fine but stay close to me,” Daenerys bargained, picking up the sword she’d discarded and then reaching for her lover. 

R-C

This was going to be it. Jon knew the end was near, one way or another. He’d been fighting White Walkers for years and he’d never been closer to the Night King than he was now. On his left Jaime and Brienne were fighting a White Walker as if they’d been training together all their lives, on the right Jorah and an Unsullied did the same to another, with less success. Many of the Unsullied were already dead. Jon knew he should help them, if they would lose even more. 

It was too tempting an opportunity to pass up. He ducked under a spear he hadn’t seen thrown and let out a battle cry as he went for the man, the thing who had killed so many. Friends, brothers, loved ones, so much death. 

The last remaining White Walker stepped forward first, protecting his liege. Jon wasn’t going to be deterred. He ran straight for him with all the grace of a charging bull. He was met with a slap, that send him flying through the air, back the way he’d come, but not before his sword made contact with the area under the White Walker’s arm. Jon watched him crumble as he waited to be reunited with the ground. 

R-C

“Check on Yara,” Arya instructed as she and Daenerys staggered toward the various fights. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Daenerys admitted. 

She was holding the dragonglass knife she couldn’t find earlier and tried to reassure her Queen. “I’m fine. Go, Yara needs you.” 

Daenerys held out the sword she was carrying. “You’ll need this more than I.” 

Unwilling to let her go unarmed, Arya traded her knife for the sword and gave Daenerys a quick peck that was too brief for her. With a broken arm, and most certainly internal damage she was limited in what she’d be able to do. 

Jon had seemed so close before but now as she limped her way to him, it felt farther with each step instead of closer. Her path was blocked by the sudden appearance of Rhaegal, who dropped from the sky like a stone, denting the ground and forcing Arya to a knee momentarily. She looked up and saw Drogon and Viserion challenging one another. Fire against fire, teeth against teeth. 

The whimper she heard from the beaten dragon was unbecoming for a creature of such strength. Rhaegal had kept her alive. Arya felt a desire to tend to him, to help if she could. The wound was wide and deep, with an unbelievable amount of blood flowing from between the torn scales. She put her hands to it, not caring that her broken arm screamed in protest, but it was meaningless. She’d need her entire body to cover the length. He’d saved her life and she wanted to try and return the favor. “Go!” she said to the creature, taking a step toward his muzzle. “Fly. Get better.” A big eye blinked at her, once, twice, three times before Rhaegal started to move. She regretted never learning more than the occasional word of Valyrian during her time in Braavos. She’d seen for herself that the dragons responded to their native tongue better than hers. “Go!” she said again. 

When the dragon did as she ordered she felt a smile curling her lips. He’d be okay. She enjoyed the sight of his uneven flight for only a few seconds before she remembered Jon and her urgency returned. She sought him out and found him just as he went sailing through the air. 

R-C

He hit the ground again. For as far back as he could remember he’d been told he was gifted with a sword. Lord Stark, Ser Rodrick, Jory, Robb, Commander Mormont, Mance, Sam and countless others. Even his enemies like Ramsay knew to fear him. None of that amounted to much as he tried and failed time and again to challenge the Night King. He’d tried attacking from the front, from the sides, using distractions, every trick he knew and none of it was working. He’d been repelled each time, knocked away with a kick or a slap as soon as he was close enough. 

As he heard the telltale sounds of Wights approaching he knew Daenerys had been right. He should have called the retreat. It was too late now. They were dead, and it was because of him. 

R-C

With Yara at her side, Daenerys ran toward the danger where she was certain Arya would be. Her focus was so singular that she hadn’t realized they were nearly killed more than once. Yara defended her, killing Wights and keeping her alive, but not before Daenerys took an icy clawed hand down the side of her neck, reaching under her armor.

She arrived at Arya’s side just as she was burying her sword into a Wight’s head. “Glad you’re alright,” Yara said to the Northern woman. 

“You too.” She looked away from the Ironborn and met Daenerys’s eye. “We need to get to Jon. He’s fighting the Night King.” 

“Those fucking things are coming. They’re going to swarm us,” Yara predicted. 

“M…make a wall,” Arya instructed, struggling with her words. “Protect Jon, give him time.”

“That’s suicide,” Yara complained. 

“Do it!” Daenerys demanded with authority. “If the Night King falls, so do the rest.” 

While they were debating the strategy a large number of survivors from other areas of the battlefield arrived. Daenerys saw soldiers from the Vale, the Dothraki, Unsullied, Northmen and even a couple of Yara’s people. “Are you sure?” Yara wondered as both groups, friend and foe drew closer. 

“Make the line,” Daenerys ordered. She used her boot to mark a spot in the snow. “No Undead get past here.”

Yara immediately got to work, yelling for attention. Arya took her by the arm and pulled her away. “Run!” she said to the Targaryen. 

“What?”

“Go Daenerys,” she said. “I’ll hold them as long as I can, I’ll help Jon, I promise but you need to go.”

She gripped Arya’s hand, not realizing it was hurt. She cried out in pain and Daenerys immediately released her. “I’m sorry,” she said too loudly, “I didn’t know.”

“I’m fine,” she lied. 

“I’m not leaving you,” she said clearly, getting back on point. She’d said something similar North of the Wall too. 

“Think about the baby Daenerys. You need to live.” 

Daenerys guided her lover’s hand, the one holding her sword to her stomach. “I am thinking about the baby. Heir or not, it won’t be much of a life if we don’t win.” 

She was watching when Arya relented. “Fine but stay next to me.”

Despite their serious circumstance she smiled at the woman she loved. “I won’t have any problem following that order.” 

R-C

Jon could hear the fighting at his back. He wanted to look but couldn’t spare the time. He was nearly out of energy. If he didn’t find an opening soon, the Night King would, and he’d be killed. 

After a swing of his sword, that was blocked by a long blade made of ice, Jon turned him hips and kicked at his knee. It felt like booting a clump of snow only to discover a rock inside. This time when the Night King went to strike him, Jon saw it coming, he ducked but wasn’t fast enough. He was sent back one more time. 

The Night King stalked forward, and Jon got an idea. He’d become predictable but perhaps that was a good thing. He just kept attempting with his sword, walking right into another punch or kick. Last time he couldn’t get away on his stubbed toe, but this time, if he was more careful…

On his feet again, he did the same thing as before. He stepped forward, grunting with effort as he took a large, loaded swing. The Night King used his blade to stop it and Jon readied a kick. He intentionally missed the solid mass of the Night King’s knee, extending past it. As was becoming habit, with their swords together the leader of the Dead pulled back a hand to hit him. Putting his weight on his forward leg, Jon managed to duck under the arm this time. Following through as Lord Stark had taught him he dragged his weapon behind and heard a shriek of pain as his sword made contact. Turning quickly, he saw a light stream of glowing blue blood leaking from a cut on his arm. He smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. 

The sword of ice fell to the ground and the Night King immediately used his uninjured arm to retrieve a spear from his back. The last time Jon had seen him wield such a weapon he was killing a dragon. It gave him pause. 

R-C

“Stay back!” Arya ordered as they neared Jon and the Night King. Small piles of what had once been White Walkers were mixed in with the snow at their feet. 

While the Kings kept one another distracted Arya went to them, approaching her enemy from the rear. Intent on ending things with one swing she did what she could to grip the pommel with both hands. The pain was severe, but she could heal later. Using stealth taught to her by assassins she crept up in silence and then pounced. She was merciless, a shadow with a blade. She bared her teeth in both rage and pain as she raised the sword over her head, using both gravity and her body weight to pull it down toward his head. 

It was over in an instant. Just before she hit her mark, she heard Jon gasp. From several feet back both Yara and Daenerys shouted her name. The Night King felt her presence and turned but she was quicker. The sword struck him on the side of his neck, shearing off skin before lodging deep against his collarbone. She smiled when she felt the depth of penetration she got but she wasn’t the only one. When he turned the Night King raised his spear, not high enough to block her sword, but enough to pierce her leather, angled up to reach deep into the cavity of her chest. 

The cold started instantly. A blistering pain from the depths of her, spreading out, freezing everything in its path. She resisted the urge to close her eyes, certain she’d never be able to open them again. She needed to stay awake. There were people she had to see, say goodbye to. 

R-C

He’d been afraid in his life many times, but never more so than when he watched Arya throw herself at the Night King. From just feet away he couldn’t stop it. She did more damage in a single attempt than he did in a dozen. His fears were realized when she took the length of his spear. The momentum sent Arya skidding along the ice for several feet before coming to an abrupt stop. 

The snow under the Night King was shining blue and Jon knew what a good soldier, a good commander, a good King was to do. He was supposed to finish what Arya started. HIs enemy was injured and weak so now was their best chance. The larger picture was less important now than it had been before. A good brother would say ‘fuck the war’ and go tend to Arya. It didn’t surprise him to learn he was a better brother than he was a King. He didn’t worry he’d be attacked as he passed the creature responsible for so much destruction. He didn’t even look when he heard the Night King speaking to someone nearby, he just went to Arya and assessed the injury. 

The shriek of the dragons made it feel like his ears were going to burst. Drogon landed several feet in front of Arya, spreading his large wings to provide cover for her. Opposite him Viserion landed next to the Night King and offered a method of escape. 

He’d seen enough death to know it would be bad, but nothing readied him for this. Daenerys arrived shortly after he did, falling to her knees next to Arya’s head. She whispered to the bleeding woman, words Jon couldn’t hear. When he gripped the shaft of the spear he was amazed by how cold it was. Even through the protective layer of his glove it was almost too cold to hold for more than a moment. 

His sister screamed in agony and his wife glared at him. “What are you doing?” 

“I need to get the spear out,” he explained. 

“We need to get her back to Winterfell,” Daenerys countered. “Drogon can take us all. If you remove it now, she’ll bleed to death.” 

That was certainly possible, but Jon had other concerns. The Night King’s spear had turned Viserion into one of his army. What would become of Arya now that she too had been struck? 

Jaime, Brienne, Jorah and the others who had been fighting the Wights and White Walkers to buy him time cheered. “They’re fleeing!” Jorah informed him. 

He looked at Arya for a moment and then Daenerys. Together they turned their heads just enough to confirm what they’d heard. It was true. The Wights and White Walkers were retreating. He was vaguely aware of the Night King, leaving the area on Viserion but that would be a problem for later. Now there was Arya. If he was going to have any hope of preventing her from turning into a Wight, he needed to get the spear out. 

“Arya can you hear me?” he asked, interrupting something Daenerys was saying to her. 

“Mm,” she hummed. 

“I need to take it out. Hold on okay?”

A weak hand touched his before he could get a firm grip. “W…wait.”

“What is it?” Daenerys asked, concern pouring off her. 

“I lo…love you both.”

Her eyes closed, and Jon knew whatever he did it wouldn’t be enough. He took the shaft in both hands and pulled as hard as he could, pleased to have an expression for his pain and grief. By the time he dropped the spear Daenerys had both her hands against the wound, trying to keep as much blood in as she could. Jon covered her smaller hands with his, but his efforts weren’t required. The blood was already being slowed by a thick layer of ice forming across the hole. Aware of how Benjen was saved Jon broke his dragonglass hatchet in two pieces, the wood and the glass. Tossing the wood away he inserted the dragonglass into the shrinking opening, while his wife questioned him. It was beyond a long shot. Benjen had been struck down by a typical White Walker. The Night King had already proved himself different when he bled blue instead of crumbling under Valyrian steel. Knowing that, he still had to try. Arya deserved the chance, however remote. He watched for any sign of life but saw none. 

He didn’t say so, but Jon feared the outcome. Arya was going to die. If she didn’t, she’d most certainly become a Wight. When Daenerys ordered Jorah to help carry her, and then directed everyone back to Winterfell on Drogon’s back, Jon didn’t stop her. She still had hope and he wasn’t going to take that from her until he absolutely had to.

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’m not sure what people will think of all that. A lot happened, but from my side it was fun to write. Sorry I had to leave it there. The next update will be soon, I promise. 
> 
> RC


	16. Chapter 16

Sam was bouncing his son on his knee when Jon carried his limp sister through the doors of Winterfell. “Jon, I…”

The King didn’t have time to listen to his friend. He needed to make sure Arya was secure first. He spent the whole flight back trying to deny it, trying to rationalize it a different way, but he couldn’t. Arya had been turned. He’d inserted the dragonglass into the same wound just as a savior had done for Benjen, but she hadn’t risen, not as Arya or a Wight. 

He hadn’t said a word to his wife the entire trip. He knew she was worried, he was too, and a good husband would have done something to comfort her, but he was at a loss. He’d seen this before. He’d watched people he loved corrupted by the Night King and those who served him. It was going to happen to Arya too. He understood that, he just hadn’t found a way to share that truth with Daenerys. 

“Where are you taking her?” she asked, running to keep up with his longer steps.

“The dungeon,” he said feeling sick at the thought. He was going to have to chain up his sister to keep her from hurting herself and others. “It’s the only place in Winterfell with enough chains.”

“You can’t lock her up!” Daenerys growled, her expression furious. If he hadn’t already known they failed, he might give in to anger too. It was an easier emotion than the despair he was feeling. 

He ignored Daenerys’s protests until the three of them were inside the cell. He set her down carefully on the stone and readied the cuff. Holding Arya’s arm, he could feel the cold, worse than a corpse. He vowed to never forgive himself as he closed the iron around her thin wrist, binding her to the wall at the rear of the room. He did the same to the other side. Few people in his life had ever loved him more unconditionally, more completely than Arya. It felt wrong to do this to her, but he didn’t know another way. He was also confident that the Arya who loved him, the one who was willing to throw her life away to save him and Daenerys wouldn’t want to put them in danger. If the dragonglass wasn’t enough, there was only one way to stop what was happening to her. He knew what was necessary, but he wasn’t ready to do it. Daenerys deserved a chance to say goodbye to the woman she loved. Jon needed to go and find his siblings. They needed to know what happened, if Bran hadn’t already seen it in his visions. “Make your peace, say goodbye,” he instructed without looking at her. “I’ll ensure you aren’t disturbed.”

He didn’t try to stop her when she hit him. “Do something!” she screamed. “Help her!” 

“If I could, you know I would,” he said, his voice breaking as he struggled to keep the tears back. “It’s too late, his spear was enough claim Viserion, it will take Arya too.” 

“No!” Daenerys shouted. “You saw it. Her eyes were grey, she’s just hurt, that’s all.” Jon knew she was attempting to convince herself as much as him, maybe more. 

“Arya’s strong,” he acknowledged, looking at the woman chained up under their family home. They were in the same cell where Ramsay Bolton died. “She’ll fight it for as long as she can, but it’ll change her. There is nothing we can do.” He thought about telling her that he’d tried the dragonglass, as had worked with Benjen but it didn’t seem important. If it worked, he would have gladly told her every detail about the Ranger who was his uncle, how he lived and how he died, but it would be a hollow gesture now. 

Daenerys wasn’t ready to give up. “I don’t believe it. You’re a King, I’m a Queen, what good is any of it if we can’t save her?” 

He didn’t answer because he didn’t know. From the moment he was named the King in the North he’d felt largely out of place. It was never a role meant for him. He was an imposter, filling the space left by the ones who couldn’t lead, Ned, Robb, Bran, even Arya. She was a Stark and more than capable. The men would have followed her. If she’d been even the slightest bit interested in politics Arya could have led them far better than he ever did. Still, he’d never felt so ill-prepared for the duties of leadership as in this moment. It was a challenge just to keep breathing.

The sounds of Daenerys crying over Arya as he climbed the stairs nearly destroyed him. His mood was worsened by the knowledge that things were only beginning. He went in search of Sansa. 

R-C

She was outside in the yard when he got there. From the look on her face he could tell there wasn’t much she didn’t already know. She was strong, stronger than him. “How bad is it?” she asked, her throat bobbing slightly as she waited for the reply. 

He shook his head first and the words came later. “I can’t save her,” he admitted feebly. He tried to be strong. Standing before Sansa, confessing his failings, he crumbled as completely as any White Walker he killed. He fell to his knees in front of her. “If I could take her place I would, I swear, but she’s gone. I’m sorry Sansa.”

“She’s dead?” she said misunderstanding. He almost lied to spare her the hurt. Arya was dead, in a way, her body was just lingering behind. The Arya they loved was gone. He took too long to answer, and Sansa’s voice dragged him from his sick thoughts. “Jon! Is Arya dead?”

“Not yet,” he said staring blankly at the snow, so he could avoid her eyes. “Daenerys is with her now. When they’re finished, I’ll take you to see her.”

He hadn’t realized he revealed their secret until it was too late. “Daenerys? Why would Daenerys be with her?” 

Lying was of little importance now. Arya would be dead soon, and her affair with his wife would become a rumor rarely spoken of. He didn’t have the energy left to muster an excuse. “She loves her.”

R-C

Seeing Arya in chains made her thirst for violence in a way she’d never experienced before. She’d wanted to kill after Drogo died, wanted to burn cities and punish her enemies but never this. She was willing to bathe the world in fire and blood allies and opposition alike. She wanted to leave only ash in her wake and then when nothing remained, she’d walk into the sea and end the suffering she felt. 

Alone with her lover she cradled her, trying to revive her. It occurred to her how frequently she’d been in this situation, watching over Arya, praying for her recovery. It had happened after King’s Landing, and after Braavos and now she was doing it again. She would have been dishonest if she said this time didn’t feel different, more extreme.

She stroked her hair gently and then traced her finger down the scar. “I know you’re in there,” she whispered between sobs. “I know some part of you can hear me. You’re a fighter Arya Stark, you have been since long before I met you. Don’t you dare stop now.” She waited for a response that never came, growing angrier with every second. “Fight!” she demanded. “Fight damn it!”

She felt so many conflicting emotions she could hardly identify them all. She was in pain, her own injuries minor when compared to the ache in her chest. If she bled to death waiting for Arya to return to her, she’d consider that a good way to leave. She was furious at Jon for accepting Arya’s fate. He loved her as she did. Not in the same way, but it was still love and she knew their bond was strong. He should have been trying to help her, to find some way to save Arya, but he had already given up. From the moment that spear pierced her, Jon was resigned to what was happening. Daenerys was far less accommodating. Something would save her, something had to. Anything else was unthinkable. 

She meant what she’d said to Jon. They had armies and scholars, servants and Maesters. Someone, somewhere had to know how to help Arya. All she needed to do was find that person. She’d offer up anything necessary as tribute to bring her back. It didn’t matter the price, she’d pay it. She didn’t know how long she sat there, tracing the line of her scar and trying to find a solution to their problem. When she’d run out of ideas she moved on to prayer. She’d encountered many Gods in her life, the Dothraki believed in the Great Stallion, the Ironborn a Drowned God, the Southerners favored the Seven and the Northmen the Old Gods of the Forest. Perhaps Arya was right and there was only one God who took on many identities. She didn’t care which one answered her. She was willing to pay homage to them all. She had nothing but time. 

Lying on the stones, she curled up on her side facing Arya, watching for any change, any sign of life. With her fingers she combed through her dark hair. “I love you,” she professed. It struck her like a bolt, remembering the words from that letter she found on the day of her wedding. She repeated them back to Arya now, in a different context, but still as true as they’d ever been. “In this life or the next.” 

R-C

He’d been all over Winterfell and couldn’t find Bran. None of the servants knew where he was, and no one had seen him in hours. He couldn’t have gotten far. The gates were sealed, and he’d need help to go anywhere.

In his search he rounded a corner blindly and nearly bumped into the Lannister brothers. “I heard about Arya,” Tyrion said gently. “I’m sorry Jon.” 

Jaime had been there to see how Arya was hurt. Unaware of her connection to Daenerys, and with limited loyalty at best, he was less diplomatic. “What are you going to do with her?”

“None of your business,” Jon answered. He wasn’t going to discuss his plans for Arya with the man who nearly killed Bran. 

“It is all our business now,” Jaime said snidely. “You brought here back here. What in Seven Hells were you thinking?” 

What was he thinking? He was thinking he didn’t want to kill and burn his sister while Daenerys was forced to watch. Perhaps that might have been kinder than what he’d done. He told himself it was better this way, that everyone would get the chance to say goodbye before Arya left them, but Jaime may have had a point. “I…”

“What?” he continued, twisting the knife to maximize Jon’s pain. “Are you going to keep her around as a pet, chained up in the dungeons? Or are you going to let her roam free beyond the Wall with your Wildlings?”

That was too much. Arya was not a joke to be made. She wasn’t someone to be mocked or ridiculed and certainly not by him. The Hand looked at Jon sadly, equally unimpressed by his brother’s attempt at humor. “Jaime, stop.” 

“What?” he asked, looking pleased by the reaction he got. “Am I supposed to mourn the girl who wishes me dead? If you haven’t got the stomach for it, I’ll…”

Jon swung without holding anything back. His fist connected with the side of the King Slayer’s face, knocking him into a cabinet and breaking the door. “Get him out of my sight before I forget he’s useful!” Jon said to Tyrion. 

To his surprise the dwarf merely looked at his brother and glared. “Go,” he said, making no effort to accompany him or hide his anger. Jaime scoffed to show his displeasure and then turned on his heel. “I’m sorry for him.” He moved on to topics that wouldn’t put them at odds. “How is Arya? Where is Daenerys?” 

“Daenerys is in the dungeon with Arya. I’m giving them some time alone before…” he couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words. 

“How is she?” Jon had always liked the smallest Lannister. They shared a bond in their unique way, both unwanted within their houses, both shunned by society at large for things they couldn’t control. Since he returned at the side of Daenerys, Jon had seen a change in the man. He took his duties seriously and tempered Daenerys’s worst impulses with caution and logic. He didn’t question his motives as others might. He’d seen Tyrion and Daenerys interact closely for many months and Jon knew the relationship was genuine. It made Tyrion even easier to have around. 

“She’s defiant,” he admitted, scrubbing his hand down his face to keep from hitting something else. “She believes there has to be something we can do. Right now, she’s clinging to that.” 

“Are you sure there isn’t?” Tyrion wondered. “Anything you can do for her I mean?” 

He sighed. “On the Wall we heard the stories. Tales of men from the Night’s Watch who went out and didn’t return. Some were said to be saved, protected from the change into a Wight by the Children of the Forest.” 

“You don’t believe such things?” Tyrion guessed incorrectly. 

“I do,” Jon said, setting the record straight. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It is possible, if a person is strong enough to resist and gets help from the Gods, it can work.”

“But?” 

“In truth I’m amazed she hasn’t died yet. She took his spear right in her chest. I tried to help her, as I heard it done by others, but nothing changed.” 

“After her last encounter with the White Walkers Sam said the cold left behind in her wounds kept her alive, lowered her pulse, sealing the openings in ice. He said it was like a snow bear…”

“In hibernation,” Jon finished. “I remember.”

“Perhaps the same thing is happening now.” 

He couldn’t dismiss the idea. He’d seen the ice crystals forming around the wound from the instant he pulled the spear. He had to be quick to get the dragonglass in before it was sealed. His worries centered around the spear more so than the extensive damage it caused. “Maybe,” he acknowledged. 

“What becomes of Arya if the spear doesn’t kill her?”

“She’ll turn into a Wight. Is it a kindness to end her suffering or should I let her have what little life she can, for as long as she can?” 

For a man who usually had all the answers, Tyrion was remarkably silent. “That is a decision I’m glad I don’t have to make,” he said finally. “You should decide with Daenerys.”

“I will,” Jon promised, sickened by the prospect of that conversation. “First I need to find Bran.” 

“Your brother? Last I saw him he was upstairs arguing with that Priestess.” 

“Arguing about what?” He wasn’t aware that Melisandre and Bran had ever spoken more than ten words to one another. 

“No idea, they were speaking in whispers, making it very difficult to overhear.” He threw up his chubby hands in mock frustration. “It’s inconsiderate, really. How am I supposed to learn things if I can’t listen in on the most private conversations?” 

He tried to smile but he just couldn’t manage it. “Thank you, Tyrion. Why don’t you go check on Sansa? She put on a good act, but I fear she’s as broken by this as Daenerys and I.” 

He was immediately serious, sobered by the task he’d been given. “She’ll not be alone.”

With Sansa cared for Jon moved on. He had questions only his brother the Three Eyed Raven could answer.

R-C

The rattling of the irons gave her warning. With a groan Arya returned to the world and tried to reach for the ice covered opening, so close to her heart. The chains prevented her from succeeding. Daenerys, who had taken off her armor and piled it carelessly on the floor was immediately wide awake and on her feet. “Arya,” she said, reaching for the other woman, “thank the Gods you’re back.” 

She tried to get a good look at her face and specifically her eyes, but she kept her head down. Daenerys’s repeated combing of it as she slept had left a large amount hanging down lower than it typically did. “Fuck it’s cold!” she complained. 

A large fire burned just outside the cell door. Daenerys thought it actually quite warm, by Northern standards, but if her lover was cold that was a problem Daenerys could fix. One of the few. She searched the room for anything that might be used to warm her. “I don’t see any,” she said, talking to herself. “I’ll summon a guard and get you a blanket.” 

The chains rattled as Arya tested their length, trying to stop Daenerys from going. “No!” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s inside me, I can feel it, the cold.”

Her step away faltered. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Her laugh was bitter. “There are some things you don’t forget Daenerys.” Arya’s hard voice softened when she said the Queen’s name. It made Daenerys feel better than she had in hours. “Why aren’t I dead?” she asked suddenly. 

She didn’t understand exactly and even if she did, she doubted she had the words to properly explain it. “I’m not certain,” she said, “there was blood from the wound at first, but it began freezing almost immediately. No one can say why.”

She shook her head and her body followed, causing the chains to clang. “No, that’s not what I mean. Why didn’t you kill me? Why didn’t you burn me right then?”

Now she was sounding like Jon. Why did people keep asking her such questions? Of course, she hadn’t killed her. This was the woman she loved, she wasn’t going to murder her because they thought there was a possibility something bad might happen if she didn’t. “You’re going to be fine. Now that you’re awake, I’ll get Jon. He’ll unlock the chains and we can figure out how to help you.” 

Each of her wrists was bound to a different chain connected to the wall several stones apart. “We don’t need Jon or anybody else,” she said. She wasn’t looking at Daenerys anymore, she was looking at something else. Daenerys followed the same path and realized she was studying the gear she’d removed to make it more comfortable to lie with Arya. “Pick up the sword and do it.”

“W…what!? I’m not going to kill you! Arya you’re fine. Look at me, let me see your eyes.” When she didn’t comply, Daenerys inched closer and put a hand on Arya’s chin to keep her still. With her other hand she brushed away the dark hair from her face and saw her favorite grey eyes staring back at her. “Grey!” she announced. “See, there is nothing wrong. I’m certainly not going to…”

“Do it!” she yelled, her voice echoing around them. “Don’t let me become one of them.”

Why were all the Starks so fucking stubborn. “Didn’t you hear me? I said your eyes are grey Arya, grey! That means it didn’t work. That spear didn’t change you, it didn’t turn you into one of them. You aren’t bleeding, just like after Braavos, the cold is helping.” 

Arya refused to be as pleased by this news as she was. “Not yet, but I can feel it trying. I’m fighting it, but I don’t know how long I can…” she closed her eyes and grinded her teeth before her restraint broke and she let out a scream of pure anguish. The chains were pulled tight as she tried to tear them from the wall. Daenerys didn’t consciously do it, but she backed away when Arya tried to move forward. She stayed just out of reach, matching Arya step for step until every link in the chain was strained to its limit and Arya could go no further. Her lover looked furious. 

“Arya, can you hear me?” she tried. 

She lifted her head and grunted while she again tried to break the binds keeping her in place. When her eyes opened there was no mistaking it. They were ice blue. Without permission her head turned away from Arya and settled on the weapon she’d discarded as no longer necessary. Was that still the case?

R-C

He was going to knock, to verify he’d found the right door but the words he heard stopped him. “… your visions confirm what I have seen in the flames?” Melisandre asked Bran. 

Both of them had their backs to him, Bran looking out the window and Melisandre looking at Bran. Not knowing what they were discussing didn’t matter, he found himself waiting to enter until he heard Bran’s response. “Yes.”

Jon gave it a few moments to see if either of them would clarify. When they didn’t, he rushed in and went straight to Bran’s side. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Did you hear what happened to Arya?”

“Many things happened to Arya today. I saw them all. I saw every possible version of today and witnessed everything that might happen to her, her and everyone else.”

Jon had never pretended to understand Bran’s ability, but he did understand the common tongue. “You knew this would happen?”

“Yes,” he said just as simply as he had with Melisandre. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have kept her behind, I could have sent her away. I could have warned her.”

Bran turned his head and Jon saw his pain written on his face, clearer than the words in any of the books that lined the shelves. “Telling you would have altered the outcome. It needed to happen as it did or else…”

Since Arya’d been hurt, anger hadn’t been Jon’s primary emotion. His outburst with Jaime aside, he’d been more despondent than angry but now that was changing. Bran had known their sister was going to be stabbed with the Night King’s spear and he let her go into the battle without so much as a warning. That wasn’t the brother he’d been raised with. Bran was always sweet. “I can’t believe you. Arya loves you like no other, she’s defended you, protected you and you let her go today knowing how it would end.”

“I’ve seen hundreds of versions of battles between our armies and the Night King’s,” he told Jon calmly. “Of those battles I’ve seen thousands of variations of each. Meeting them today, in the field where you did, before they could reach Winterfell was the optimal one.”

“Optimal? Thousands of people died today. Theon is dead, Davos too and Arya is…” He still couldn’t say it, not even to Bran who clearly already knew. “You should have told me. I would have ordered her not to go, I would have chained her to her bed if I had to. We could have saved her if only…”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, “many died but far fewer than if Arya wasn’t there. I considered all the things you’re thinking, sending her away on an errand, asking her to stay and forcing her to, none worked.” He let his words sink in before he continued on. “You know Arya better than anyone, even better than me. She wouldn’t have stayed behind no matter how many times she promised otherwise. She’d have broken any oath to fight at your side.”

That sounded true, but Jon wasn’t ready to concede yet. “I could have locked her up.”

“And the war would have been lost,” Bran justified. “Not just the battle, but the war. Without Arya there, Daenerys would have been killed when the Night King dismounted his dragon and you, Brienne and Jorah all would have died trying to avenge her. Jaime would have died trying to save Brienne.” 

He sounded so sure, it was difficult to refute. He’d come to trust in Bran’s gift, but maybe that was a mistake. Surely there had to be some way that might have spared Arya. Jon thought for a moment. What about Yara? She’d been there too when he battled the Night King. “You didn’t mention the Greyjoy.”

“If Arya remained in Winterfell both Yara and Theon would serve a different King tonight. She saved Yara’s life before she found you and she burned Theon to prevent him from being turned into a Wight when it was clear he couldn’t be saved.” Bran said, filling in the pieces he didn’t know. 

It was hard to comprehend. Arya was a talented warrior, but she was still only one woman. “So, you’re saying…” he stopped his words to allow Bran to finish what seemed so implausible to him. 

“Without Arya today, we’d all be dead. You were going to ignore Daenerys’s advice to retreat, if Arya wasn’t there, you would have had no reason to stop. You would have fought him to the death and the others would have joined you. When she recovers, we’ll all owe Arya a debt.”

Jon was growing dizzy. “Recovers?”

Melisandre chose that moment to remind them she was there. “Send for the Maester and the slave girl.”

Jon didn’t even turn his head in her direction, let alone obey. “Did you say we can save her?” How many White Walkers had he killed, how many Wights and how many of his former brothers had he had to burn to avoid having to fight them later? Surely if there was a way the Night’s Watch would have known it. They were the only people on this side of the Wall who even believed the enemy was real. 

“There’s a chance, and there is a risk,” Melisandre said. “The longer we wait, the less likely our plan is to succeed.”

“What do I need to do,” Jon said in a rush. Suddenly he was full of energy without direction. 

“Find the Maester,” the Priestess said again. 

“Sam?” Jon wondered. “What does Sam have to do with this?”

Bran answered the question though it wasn’t posed to him. “He tried to tell you days ago and again when you returned.”

Hearing it put so bluntly he did recall that Sam had been trying to talk to him for a while. With so much going on, he put it off, assuming they’d have time to speak after things settled. “I’ll go find him,” Jon promised. 

“Find your wife’s slave girl too. She’s one of the few who can read the message and confirm its meaning.”

Jon nodded and was gone. Sam and Missandei. That, he could do. 

R-C

Sansa tried to be patient. If it was true what Jon said, that Daenerys loved Arya then she should have time to speak with her privately, but Sansa was her sister and she deserved an opportunity as well. She waited until Podrick was fussing over Brienne and then she slipped away. 

She heard the crying before she got to the bottom. Daenerys was there, dressed in the thin clothes that belonged under armor. Her once braided hair was wildly disorganized now, sticking up in all directions as if she ran her hands through it one too many times. Arya appeared to be sleeping with Daenerys standing over her. The Queen held a long sword in one hand, as though it were a cane, staring at Arya. 

“Your Grace, are you hurt as well?” 

She sniffled before she replied, turning and dragging the sword along the floor to make a scratching noise. She didn’t seem to notice. “Sansa, yes I’m fine. I was just…”

When she became aware Daenerys was going to lie, she hurried to show it wasn’t necessary. “Jon told me why you are down here,” she said, “with Arya.” 

“So, you know then,” Daenerys said without feeling. It wasn’t clear if Daenerys was pleased Sansa knew, upset or something else entirely. “I love your sister Sansa truly and I know how that must sound coming from Jon’s wife, but I mean it.” 

“I believe you.” She’d gotten good at knowing when she was being lied to and even better at knowing when she was being told half-truths for another’s reasons. Cersei, Joffrey, Littlefinger and Ramsay had all participated in that education. She heard only honesty in Daenerys’s admission. The woman in front of her was too broken to lie. 

“She wishes me to kill her.” 

“She’s awake?” Sansa said looking around the Queen for a better view. 

“She was. We spoke briefly and then she said she could feel it trying to change her. She wanted me to kill her and when I refused it happened.” 

“What did?”

“She changed in to one of them. Right here,” Daenerys said looking down at the spot. “One moment we were talking, and I was beginning to hope she’d be okay, the next it was as if she was fighting a battle within herself. When it was over, her eyes were blue. She fell unconscious not long after.”

Sansa walked around the Queen and knelt on the floor without concern for her dress. Touching her face, she was struck by the chill. “Oh Arya.” She stood up and addressed Jon’s wife. “How did this happen. Jon didn’t say.” She was suddenly struggling to control the swell of memories that were assaulting her. She remembered fighting with Arya as a girl, calling her ‘horseface’ and mocking her interests. She thought of the pain she felt when she believed Arya dead, and the joy when they were reunited in the crypts in front of their father’s bones. She thought of the last time she was in this room and immediately wanted to move Arya somewhere else, anywhere else. Brave, strong, stubborn Arya shouldn’t spend a second in the cage where Ramsay was fed to his hounds. Sansa reflected on how good it was to have her back. She remembered the awe in watching Arya train with Brienne and the pride that came seeing her kill Littlefinger, righting a wrong done to their family. When she heard what she’d done to the Freys Sansa wanted to be horrified but she wasn’t. She was glad. She was glad that Arya was willing and able to avenge Robb and their mother and all the others who died. 

“She was a hero.” The words reminded Sansa of the question she forgot she’d asked. 

After seeing Arya’s skills firsthand, it wasn’t all that difficult to imagine. She’d always been fearless and tougher than many men they met. They couldn’t be more different, but Sansa loved her sister and she was thrilled to have her back. Now it appeared she was going to have to lose her all over again. A thought came to her. “Your Grace, may I ask a question?”

“Anything you wish,” Daenerys replied without hesitation. 

“Jon said you love Arya, and you confirmed it just now, did Arya feel the same way for you?” While she awaited confirmation, she was appalled by the realization that she’d spoken of Arya as if she was already gone. 

For the first time the Targaryen smiled. “Yes, and for that I may be the luckiest woman in the world. Even after all I’ve done, Arya still loves me and accepts me.”

Both women looked at the unconscious one in silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Sansa noticed Daenerys was still smiling and she imagined her expression was something similar. Sansa broke the quiet first. “If Arya loves you, I know she’d have no regrets about putting her life in danger to protect you and Jon. Even if she knew what it would mean for her, I’d wager she’d still do it.”

The laugh that came, short as it was, was unexpected. “You know Arya well. That sounds exactly like her.” The words were a fact and not a question, the difference obvious in the tone. 

“It was never easy for she and I…”

Daenerys surprised her again, this time by interrupting. “She loves you very much and told me more than once that she thought about you all the time while you two were apart.” 

“She did?” In her deepest fears, she worried that Arya was happier away from her. It’s the only way Sansa could make sense of her actions. She’d spent years away from Westeros and when she did return she was always coming and going, disappearing for weeks at a time to hunt rapers and bandits, going off with a group of soldiers to train them in the forest. Then on her most recent trip, she left without saying goodbye. Sansa couldn’t think of a reason for her to behave that way unless she didn’t want to be near her. 

“She did,” Daenerys vowed. “Sit Sansa,” she said, showing her how by lowering herself to the floor with her legs folded under her. “I think there is much we have to talk about.”

R-C

Word had spread and by the time Jon returned with Sam and Missandei the room had more than just Melisandre and Bran. Many of the slowly returning troops filled the room, all waiting to hear if the Stark could be saved. 

“Where did this scroll come from?” Tyrion asked. 

“The Citadel,” Sam said, before he elaborated. “I received a raven about it days ago. An old book was discovered in the restricted section,” he said, his face heating. “I searched that area for any texts related to the Long Night, the Night King or White Walkers before I left. I thought I’d gotten them all. The book must have fallen from its place. It’s old, far older than most books on the subject. The pages are so brittle I’m afraid to turn them.” 

“And we’re just hearing about it now?” Glover complained. The old Lord had a cut on his cheek and a very visible injury to his right leg. It occurred to Jon that in order for him to make it back so quickly, he would have had to begin retreating before Jon ordered it done. 

Sam was his friend and he wasn’t going to allow him to be mistreated. “The mistake was mine,” he said loudly. “Sam tried to speak to me several times. We were so busy preparing for the war, I thought it could wait.”

Uncomfortable in the center of a crowded room, Sam shuffled from foot to foot. “Y... you weren’t wrong,” he said to Jon before raising his voice for all to hear. “Jon wasn’t wrong. It could wait, but now it can’t.”

“What did the raven say, Sam?” Jon asked kindly. 

“Just that a courier was being sent with information they believed might help us here.” 

“What does it say?” Jorah asked. 

“I… I don’t know,” Sam stammered. “Not exactly, I mean. It’s not the common language.”

Jon suddenly understood the reason for including Missandei in this meeting. If anyone would have a hope of reading it, it was the former translator. From his bag Sam produced a book wrapped in cloth and set it over top of the map. Slowly, he unfolded the fabric to expose a worn book that had only the faintest ink still visible on the cover. He turned to the proper page, taking care not to damage the ancient item. When he found it, he took a step to the side while keeping his finger pressed down to prevent it from closing. Missandei squinted and cleared her throat. “This speaks of a story passed down from generation to generation. About a family that lived in the North during the time of this Long Night. After the war was won, they sold their lands and bought passage to Essos fearing the Dead would rise again. They thought they’d be safer in Pentos.”

“Lovely,” Yara commented, “but how is any of that going to help us now?”

Her dark eyes kept reading and she smiled. “There is more.” 

“What is it?”

“During the war, before they fled, this family was known to use magic.”

“Magic?” Tyrion verified, obviously skeptical. 

“The father and mother were both said to be gifted in magic,” Missandei continued. “The mother used hers to heal the ill, and the father to kill. It says he was capable of murder after only a few whispered words.” 

“Magic is dangerous,” Jorah declared. “The last time Daenerys tried to make an agreement with such a woman she was betrayed.” 

“The book tells of how the couple’s only son was attacked by a White Walker. He was rescued and returned home.” 

Enough story-telling. Jon was ready to hear how any of this could help Arya. “Did they save him or not?”

“They did,” Missandei answered. “Some of the ink is faded but they saved the son and it is his bloodline the story is passed down through. One of that man’s ancestors wrote this book.”

“Does your precious book tell you how to do it?” Jaime questioned, his arms folded over his chest. 

“Not exactly.”

“What good is it then?” Yara snapped. 

“A sacrifice must be made, as it is with all such things,” Melisandre said, speaking directly to Jon, “ask your wife, she’s familiar with bargains like this.”

It took a moment for Jon to understand. “Someone needs to die to save Arya?” he summarized, thinking back to what Daenerys had told him about how her dragons were hatched. 

“Only life can purchase life. In this case, the price is two.” 

All around him were whispering voices and shocked gasps. Two people would need to die. He’d told Sansa he would sacrifice himself and he would, but could he also condemn another? 

While he debated, Melisandre kept going. “The text speaks of a bargain made by two people, one representing the light and another the dark. When sacrificed together, in the same room as the one undergoing the change, it can be reversed.” 

“Who did it?” Tyrion asked, speaking a question Jon hadn’t considered. “In the story, who did the parents kill to save their son?” 

Missandei answered, looking up from the ancient words and staring straight into the Hand’s eyes. “Themselves.” 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Still with me? Things are about to get interesting. Who is willing to die to save Arya?
> 
> RC


	17. Chapter 17

She didn’t want to leave Arya for an instant, but Sansa was owed a few minutes alone with her sister. When she crossed the yard to the main building she saw a flow of soldiers trickling in. Without a dragon to fly on, it had taken them hours to get back to Winterfell. Most were injured and even with an untrained eye she could tell many wouldn’t survive the night. She couldn’t let Arya join them. 

She slipped into the rear of the room without ceremony. It was crowded, and everyone’s attention was elsewhere. She worked her way through a few clusters of people and stopped when she was close enough to hear what was being discussed clearly. 

“They murdered themselves?” Tyrion said in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

“That’s what it says,” Missandei answered confidently. 

“It requires a merger of both light and dark,” Melisandre explained. “The father was the dark, his wife the light.” 

“So,” Yara said, sounding displeased, “to save Arya we need to find a person who is light and a person who is dark and kill them? Great, should we dispatch ravens asking them to come to Winterfell?” By the end her tone had turned sarcastic. 

Daenerys felt as if her heart might break through her chest. Were her ears deceiving her? There was a way to save Arya? With a new sense of purpose, she pushed her way to the front. By the time she did, Jon had already decided. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, I took the black, I’ll represent the dark.” 

No one objected to his suggestion. “Who will be the light?” 

Daenerys didn’t have to think about it. “I will,” she said clearly. 

Violet eyes moved around the room, each face wearing a different emotion. Missandei looked sad, Jorah horrified, Tyrion regretful, and Yara stunned. Jon, her husband, was the hardest to come to terms with. His handsome face flickered between understanding and fear. Bran and Melisandre acted as if she hadn’t spoken and Sam was doing everything he could not to look at her. 

“Khaleesi no,” Jorah said. He left his seat and moved to her side as if being closer might give him more sway over her choice. “You mustn’t. You’re needed here, and you have the baby to think about.” 

The baby. She’d been so focused on Arya she hadn’t considered the child. Her life had come back to its beginning again. Once again, she was forced to choose between the baby she wanted and the person she loved. The Gods, if they existed were cruel indeed. Things hadn’t gone her way last time. She sacrificed her son to try and save Drogo, and in the end, lost them both. It had been the right thing then, to risk everything to try and save the Khal and she was willing to do it again now, for Arya. 

“He’s right,” Jon said, sounding almost disappointed to have to say so. “The Realm needs you, the baby needs you and Arya will need you when she’s back.” 

Didn’t he understand? Arya wouldn’t be back at all if she didn’t do this. She’d once thought she’d be willing to give up everything she had or would have for Arya. She was being put to the test. This was her chance to prove it was more than just boastful talk. 

“Would it work?” she asked, the question posed to Bran. If anyone could tell them if she stood a chance representing the light, it was him. 

“No,” he said, dashing all of her hopes. “You are not the sacrifices the ritual demands. Arya would hate to return to find the two of you gone.” 

All too clearly, she could imagine Arya’s furious response to what they were suggesting. Bran was right, she would be enraged. Arya would gladly die to keep Jon, Daenerys and the baby alive. She knew that, but it wasn’t up to Arya. Daenerys wasn’t willing to let her go. 

“If not them, then who?” Tyrion asked the crippled man. 

“Me,” Bran said as calmly and stoically as he always was. 

Melisandre went behind his chair and pushed him into the center of the room, where Jon and Daenerys were standing. “And me,” she added. 

Jon looked sick. “Bran, no!” he protested squatting down to his brother’s level. “It should be me. I’m the right choice. I won’t let you do this.” 

“It’s not for you to decide. As you said, I knew this would happen and I’m ready.”

“I’m the dark,” Jon insisted. “I took the oath, ruled over Castle Black. I’m in the Night’s Watch, it’s my duty.”

“Nothing is darker than a raven,” he countered. “It’s okay Jon,” he said, putting his hand on the King’s arm. “I want to do this, for Arya, for all of you.” 

“I will represent the light,” the Priestess continued. “I’m prepared as well.”

Jon looked away from Bran and stood tall. “Why?” he asked his former advisor. 

“I told you my death was near Jon Snow, now it is here.” Just like Bran, she appeared completely at peace with her potential end. “I’ve had a long life. I made many mistakes and enjoyed many successes. I caused great harm and brought great joy. I regret Davos did not live to witness this as he so wished, but I will see him again soon enough. To save your sister we must die. It is the will of the Lord of Light.”

Daenerys had never been Melisandre’s biggest admirer. She was disgusted to learn what she’d done to a child for her Lord. Later, her own disagreements with the woman over their struggles to conceive only heightened her distrust. Still she couldn’t deny feeling empathy for her as she offered herself up. “Why does your Lord care if Arya lives?” she needed to know. 

Melisandre gave the Queen a knowing smile. For an instant she thought she was going to reveal her relationship with Arya to the listeners. “The Night King is not defeated, and this war is only the first you’ll need to win if you desire peace. She is important. Returning her to you is what my Lord commands.” 

R-C

The first thing she felt when she returned to herself was the cold. So fucking cold. It soaked into her bones and went deeper. It reminded her of the time she fell through the ice outside Winterfell, chasing after Robb and Jon. She wanted to accompany them on a hunt and they told her no. They sent her back home and she responded by following after them in secret. Looking back, it was likely her first attempt at the art of stealth and she hadn’t been a natural. Within minutes she was trying to tiptoe across the frozen water, thinking herself clever for coming from a place her brothers wouldn’t suspect. Small as she was, the ice still broke and if they hadn’t heard her scream and turned back she surely would have drowned. It had taken weeks in bed under Maester Luwin’s care before she felt warm again. Her mother was angry and relieved in equal measure and her father merely looked at her in understanding and shook his head. 

Cold a she was, she felt like she was sweating. It didn’t make sense. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She tried to move and was held back by the chains. That’s when she understood, when she remembered. The battle, the Night King, Daenerys. “Daenerys?” she said looking for her Dragon. 

“She’ll be back soon,” Sansa said. “She is going to see if Sam and Jon know of a way to help you.” 

Her first instinct was to get upset. Why was she still alive? She’d made her wishes clear to Daenerys. She didn’t want to live like this. She didn’t want to become one of those things. If Daenerys couldn’t do what was necessary, if Jon couldn’t, she’d have to rely on someone else. Before that, there was something else she needed to do. “I’m sorry,” she said, putting as much feeling into the words as she could, “for everything, I’m sorry Sansa. You deserve a better sister. I should have told you I was leaving.”

“I understand why you didn’t.” 

She could always tell when Sansa was lying, and she wasn’t now. “You do?”

She brought forward a cup of water and held it to Arya’s dry lips. She had no idea where it had come from, but she wasn’t in a position to be picky. “I know about you and Daenerys. She says she loves you and that you love her.”

When she left Winterfell before the wedding, she thought her feelings for Daenerys were just one more secret she’d have to carry for the rest of her life. One more buried truth between her and her God but she’d been wrong. After everything that happened, everything that would happen, she was glad she’d made her peace with Jon, and with Daenerys. She was glad they’d had a little more time together. Jon was right. She was a fool to waste it. She was also happy that Sansa was here, that she’d have a chance to tell her sister what she hadn’t said in too long. “I love her. Look out for them when I’m gone. That baby is going to rule the Realm one day and he or she is going to need an aunt like you to watch over and protect them.”

Sansa had carried the water to a table outside her cell. When she returned she was crying, swiping at the tears angrily. “He’ll have an army.” 

Arya tried to imagine the boy Sansa obviously was, Daenerys’s son. It made her smile. “I’ve never known anyone stronger Sansa. The things you’ve been through, what you’ve endured, it would have destroyed me.”

“You went through worse,” Sansa argued. “I…”

Arya didn’t want to fight. “I got to resist, I got to release my anger, you had to hold it in, to keep it, with Joffrey, with Ramsay, Littlefinger. You remind me so much of mother. Thank you for that.” 

“You can’t go!” Sansa said. “You’ve just come back. We’re finally together again.”

For once, Arya didn’t want to go. She was finally in a place where she was happy. She had Daenerys, Sansa, Bran, and Jon. Even the baby that had bothered her so intently just days earlier now seemed like a part of her. “You deserved better, I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.” Now that she’d started she couldn’t stop. There were so many things Sansa needed to hear and time wasn’t on their side. “I know its too late for me to fix things, to make up for it, but I never forgot you and I only want good things for you.” The cold was spreading, so she hurried to finish. “Don’t mourn me, be happy and know I’ll love you…” 

She wasn’t done. When she opened her mouth only a cry came out. She tried to rebel, but every second felt as though she was being torn apart from the inside. The last thought she had before the cold and darkness took her was that she wished she’d stayed long enough to ask Sansa to do what Daenerys couldn’t, to kill her. 

R-C

The next time she was able to combat the cold long enough to wake she was alone in her cell with Bran. She looked around, for Jon, Daenerys, Sansa or even a servant. How had he gotten down the stairs? They hadn’t left him alone with her, had they? What were they thinking? She might harm him. She wouldn’t want to, but it was getting harder to keep control. 

“They brought you down to say goodbye?” she guessed. 

In contrast to how he’d been since she returned, he was looking at her, his eyes focusing on the here and now and not his visions of past or future. “Something like that.” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, although she wanted desperately for him to stay. “I could hurt you.” 

“We needed to talk, and I’ll be perfectly safe.” 

She wasn’t convinced but as with Sansa, she didn’t want to waste their limited time arguing pointlessly. “You know what needs to be done, convince Jon and Daenerys to do it. I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to become a Wight.” She was confident that if anyone could reassure Jon it was right it would be Bran. It was unfair to ask it of him, but she didn’t have many options left. 

“Yes,” he said with a sad smile. “I know exactly what needs to be done.”

She felt relief at this. Bran understood. Bran would help her. She didn’t want to live in chains and she didn’t want to turn into a Wight and become a danger to everyone she loved. This was for the best. Just like with Ellaria. She heard Jaqen’s voice in her mind. ‘Death is a Gift’. “Thank you.” 

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” he promised, “but you’ll need to do something for me.” 

Arya didn’t know what she could possibly offer Bran so late in her life, but no matter his request, she’d try and honor it. “Anything.”

“Forgive yourself,” he said, “for what’s happened, for what’s coming. This isn’t your fault Arya. We all make choices. You may not agree with them but that doesn’t make them yours to carry.”

She didn’t understand. What was he saying? She would be dead soon. What did it matter if she blamed herself? “I don’t understand,” she was forced to admit. 

“I know,” he replied in his cryptic way, “you will soon. Remember what Olenna said, ‘there is more than life to revenge.’ It’s time to start thinking about tomorrow.” 

She shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Bran knew about her conversations with Lady Olenna. They’d never spoken of it, but that was hardly a barrier to his knowledge. Tomorrow? She didn’t have one. Did he mean the next life? He must have. There wasn’t time to decide. “I’m sorry Bran,” she said as the cold in her chest began to radiate out. “Keep an eye on Daenerys and the baby for me please.”

“I will,” he promised, giving her that same sad smile as earlier. “I have three of them after all.” 

She chuckled. Only Bran would joke at such a time. “I love you,” she hurried to say, before she couldn’t. “Tell Jon to do it like father taught him, it’ll be quick, I won’t feel…”

The void inched closer and closer and as it claimed her again she could have sworn she heard Bran say, “I’m ready.” 

R-C

The cell was becoming crowded. Arya remained in her chains, unconscious again. Bran was in his chair on one side and Melisandre stood on the other. Sansa after learning one of her siblings was going to die to save the other, broke down. Tyrion was consoling her upstairs. Daenerys could understand why she didn’t want to witness this, but the Queen had to. Jon tried to send her away, but she couldn’t fathom being anywhere else.

“You don’t need to do this,” Jon said, first to Bran. “Neither of you,” he added looking to the Priestess. “We can find another way.”

“Arya doesn’t have time,” Bran stated confidently. “I was never meant to grow old. She’s going to be angry at me when she understands what I’ve done. Remind her of her promise.” 

Daenerys had intended to keep quiet, to give Bran and Melisandre’s sacrifice the reverence it was due, but she couldn’t hold her tongue and she wouldn’t have another opportunity to ask. “What promise?”

He ignored her question but spoke to Daenerys. “You’re going to be an incredible mother. Your son will be lucky to have you.” 

A son? She was sure a breeze could have knocked her from her feet. Across from her Jon was smiling widely at the news. “A boy,” he gasped in wonder. 

“Our father would be so proud of you,” Bran said to Jon, causing the elder’s hand to shake as it reached for his sword. 

“He wasn’t my father Bran,” Jon said, “but thank you.” 

“He was in every way that mattered. I was proud to call you my King and my brother.” 

Daenerys had to admit she didn’t know Bran very well, but she’d never heard him speak in such a sentimental way. She’d always found him a little stiff, rarely revealing himself. Seeing him with Jon now, she felt like she was intruding by being there. 

Her husband wiped under his eyes and drew his sword. Daenerys watched until her view was blocked by Melisandre stepping forward. She held out a dagger, one Daenerys immediately recognized as Arya’s. She had no idea how or when she’d recovered it, but it didn’t matter. “Your Grace, if you’d please, the time has come.” 

She looked to Jon for approval, for confirmation and he looked to Bran. The young man willing to die only nodded, his grey eyes remaining open even as the sword fell. Daenerys stood frozen for the length of two heartbeats. She’d known what was going to happen, accepted it, but somehow wasn’t prepared. Realizing she had yet to act, she raised the dagger and tried to do what Arya would have in her place. She sliced a quick, thin line across the middle of her neck, severing all the vital parts. 

Daenerys held her breath after the body fell. She waited for something to happen, for Arya to react, for Jon to speak, anything at all. The silence was sickening. Her teary violet eyes saw Bran hunched forward in his chair, a wound to his neck. Jon had failed to take his head completely but there was no doubt the outcome was the same. He was gone. Melisandre’s body rested at her feet, the blood pooling around her, covering the stones at an alarming speed. 

Arya remained unchanged. Lifeless in her binds. Stepping over the corpse Daenerys went to her. Bending down she touched her face and still found it cold. She lifted an eyelid to try and see the color, but they’d rolled back in her head and weren’t visible. She gripped her shoulders and shook her. Nothing happened. 

Her panic rising, she looked to Jon for reassurance. He was staring at the wound he’d left in Bran, unable or unwilling to address her. She couldn’t say how long they waited like that. When the quiet ended Jon’s words weren’t the least bit comforting. “By the Gods, what have we done?”

R-C

He’d wanted to wait to bury his brother until after Arya was able to join them, but it had been days and she remained unconscious in the dungeon. He’d splashed cold water on her face, yelled her name until his voice was raw and watched Daenerys try to coax her back to life with her heated blood but nothing worked. Bran deserved to be honored, and Arya would understand. 

The crypt was crowded with people. Many of whom hadn’t known Bran in life but were aware of his sacrifice. Jon had never seen the servants of Winterfell so distraught. They all knew Bran well, having been responsible for taking him where he needed to go and ensuring his needs were met. Many sobbed openly as the body was carried to the crypt and others stood with their hands over their hearts, heads bowed in a show of respect. 

Sansa was a mess. Bran had spoken to her at length before being taken down to the dungeon. Jon didn’t know what was said between them, but Sansa hadn’t refused to let him go, or challenged Jon’s authority. She simply wailed as Jon led him away for the last time. The fact that their deeds hadn’t returned Arya to them only magnified the hurt. There wasn’t anything he could do, nothing anyone could do, although Tyrion tried, rarely leaving her side. 

Upon learning of the ceremony meant for Bran, others were eager to voice their support. Yara wished to speak for Theon, and Jon knew he also needed to honor what Davos had done for him. He couldn’t deny the pain they were feeling went far beyond Bran, so he agreed anyone who wanted to, could speak for any of those who died. 

He suggested she speak for their brother, but Sansa refused, saying she wouldn’t be able to get the words out. And so, the solemn duty fell to him. Everywhere around them were the monuments and shrines of their family. Ned, his wife, Robb Talisa and their baby, all slept here. Jon didn’t know how the bodies had come to be returned to Winterfell nor did he care. He was just glad someone had the decency to arrange it. Further away were his ancestors, Lyanna, his mother, Bran’s uncle and namesake and the grandfather murdered by Daenerys’s father. He knew how uncomfortable it was for his wife to be there, she told him she avoided the crypt intentionally, but was just as insistent that she be present for Bran. It was one of the few times she’d left Arya’s side for more than a minute or two since the murders. 

“We’ve lost too many friends and loved ones,” he said in opening. “All over the lands of our friends and allies, mothers will be burying sons, sons their fathers and brothers,” his voice broke, “brothers will be burying brothers.” He swallowed hard and tried to push on but nearly lost his nerve when he heard Sansa crying on his left. “We must honor them,” he said as clearly as he could. “We owe them that. We can never forget what they did to ensure we survived.” 

He pictured his friend in his mind and knew he’d hate it if he knew what Jon intended to say. “Davos Seaworth was not a learned man, he hadn’t known to read or write until a young girl who visited him in a dungeon taught him. That said, I’ve known few in my life more loyal, more honorable or more dedicated than he. I wouldn’t be standing here today if not for Davos and wherever he is now, I hope he knows how much his friendship meant to me.” 

“Theon Greyjoy,” one of the surviving Ironborn yelled from the rear half of the crypt. 

Jon nodded. “Theon Greyjoy was raised in Winterfell along side me and my siblings. Few men are willing to admit their mistakes, to correct them and do better, but Theon was. The man I knew in his last months was not the same one from the years prior. He was a better man, one I was proud to fight beside.” 

“Theon is the only reason I escaped Ramsay Bolton,” Sansa said, finding her voice. 

“He died so I could live!” Yara added.

“Robert Oakhart.” 

It continued on this way, name after name, story after story. Jon listened to them all, struck by just how many they’d lost, but also by how deeply those people seemed to touch the lives of everyone around them. 

When he couldn’t put it off anymore, he looked at the statue behind him. It had been crafted on his orders, masons working long into the night to make sure it was perfect. It wasn’t Bran in his chair, but Bran climbing, with working legs reaching for the highest stone he could. That’s how Jon wanted to remember him. “Brandon Stark!” he called. This was going to be even harder than he predicted. “My father once told me that history is written by the victor. He said many great deeds, noble sacrifices and treacherous betrayals are erased from the records by those who wish them forgotten. If this is true, we must be victorious. We must defeat our enemies and tell our history as it was, so the generations that follow know of Bran, Theon, Davos and all the others. We can’t allow them to be forgotten. We must be as strong and brave as they were and finish what they began.”

R-C

It was later that night when Sansa found him. He’d been sharpening his sword, but it had been several minutes since he’d moved the stone. He was lost in his memories, thinking about Bran and Arya. He’d killed his brother for nothing. 

“You’re wrong,” she told him. 

He looked up, surprised to find her there. He hadn’t heard her come in. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re wrong,” she repeated. “Bran didn’t die for nothing and Arya will return to us.” He stared in amazement. How had she known? He was too afraid of the answer to ask. “Bran wanted me to give you a message,” she said. “I looked for you after the crypt, but I couldn’t find you.”

Of course, she couldn’t. He’d fled. He ran to the Weirwood Tree to beg forgiveness for all he’d done that led them here. “I needed time to think.” 

“You did the right thing. What Bran knew needed to be done, what I pray I would have had the courage to do, what Robb would have done and what father would have told you was right if he were here.”

It wasn’t possible for Jon to disagree with her more. “Our father… your father, would never have killed his own son, not even to save Arya.” 

“You’re wrong,” she countered, sounding certain. “Bran told me his death was unavoidable. Even if he hadn’t died to save Arya, he would have soon.”

Jon didn’t know that. Bran had never said much on the subject. Only that he wasn’t meant to grow old. Did Sansa know more? “You can’t know that.”

She gave him a watery smile. “I didn’t, Bran did. He saw his life, lived it hundreds of times, the good the bad, the beginning and the end. He told me that even if Arya died, he wouldn’t have survived the year.” 

Jon didn’t know how to respond to that. Bran wasn’t available to confirm it. He wasn’t there because Jon had killed him. “It didn’t work. He gave his life for nothing, I took it for nothing!”

“It will. I believed in Bran and I believe in you. He told me Arya would be okay and I trust in that. You should to too.” 

“I can’t, I’ve tried but I can’t even think straight, every time I close my eyes I see Bran dead and Arya in chains.” 

She put a comforting arm around him. “We need our King now. The Dead are coming, and Bran wanted me to tell you that you need to defeat them before they reach Winterfell.” 

Was she serious? They’d just buried Bran, Arya was still in the dungeon and she was thinking about the White Walkers? Fuck the White Walkers. “Now is not the time.”

“Now is the only time,” she protested. “Bran said, if we hide behind the walls here, we’ll lose, and the rest of the Ream will too. He said to defeat them you need to take the best men you can and attack the Night King before he reaches us.” 

Jon resisted her idea at once. “You didn’t seem them. Sansa there are tens of thousands of them. I thought we’d have a chance, but we don’t. I was there, we can’t win.”

“We have to!” she said, her gentle voice turning to steel. “Bran said that you don’t need to defeat them all, just their King. He said you’d understand.” 

He did understand. This was a strategy he’d considered many times and always dismissed. He couldn’t get close enough to the Night King to do him harm. He’d tried before Arya was hurt and he had barely stayed alive. Legends said it was like a pyramid, the Wights at the base, then the White Walkers, with the Night King at the top. Killing him would cause the deaths of all those beneath him, just as killing a White Walker kills the Wights they control, but it was useless information if he couldn’t defeat him. “I’ve tried,” he whined. 

“Daenerys tells me you’re having a son. If you want him to live in a world free from the White Walkers, finish what you’ve started. You’ve gathered the greatest army Westeros has ever known. Daenerys commands dragons for fuck sakes, use them.” 

Was it really that simple? She did make a valid argument. He was going to be a father. If he wanted his son to live long enough to be born, if he wanted him to grow and prosper in safety, the Night King needed to be killed. 

Confident that she’d made her point, Sansa went for the door. He stopped her with his voice. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She smiled, a beautiful, kind smile and nodded. “I’ll convene your council. They’ll be waiting when you’re ready.” 

R-C

Daenerys paced anxiously while Sam did another exam of Arya. He’d done so religiously three times daily since she’d been locked in the dungeon and each time he had little in the way of answers. Arya hadn’t regained consciousness since before Bran and Melisandre died, since before the ritual. More than once she thought she felt her lover’s skin beginning to return to its normal temperature but Sam, Jon and all other visitors were less certain. If it wasn’t for the quiet shallow breathing she could feel when she rested her head on Arya’s chest, Daenerys might have already concluded she was dead. She remained alive, although no one seemed to be able to predict when she would wake, or if. 

Missandei brought her food regularly and occasionally encouraged her to bathe and change her clothes, but no one dared tried to force her away anymore. Those who knew why she remained gave her space and those who didn’t were confused. Jorah had been the hardest to convince. He was ignorant to the reason she refused to abandon Arya, not realizing Daenerys was hopelessly in love. He tried repeatedly to get her to leave the dungeon, using her unborn baby as a tool to that end, but she wouldn’t relent. After his last attempt she snapped rudely and sent him away. 

“Is there anything new?” she asked as soon as Sam was through with his duties. 

She knew the answer before he spoke. His face said plenty. “No change. I don’t understand it. The book was clear, and she’s still breathing.”

“Maybe the book was wrong,” Daenerys said harshly. She didn’t want to consider that possibility, but it was getting harder to avoid. Had they killed two people for nothing? She knew Jon was beginning to fear they had. 

Tarly was an incredibly smart man. Daenerys heard from Jorah how it was he alone who risked infection to cure him of his Greyscale. Against the wishes of all those at the Citadel he sent Jorah back to her, she only hoped he could do the same for Arya. 

“It’s possible,” Sam speculated, “but I don’t think so. Her breathing is steady, and she’s healthier now than she has been at anytime since the battle. There are no signs that she’s in any sort of pain.”

“What of her wounds?” she asked, remembering how Arya looked with the spear sticking out from her chest. Since Bran and Melisandre died Arya’s damage had been mending itself. Healing faster than even the smartest among them could comprehend. Each day the ice-covered opening was smaller than the one before. 

Daenerys had allowed the Maester to tend to the injuries she suffered in the fighting, but only in the damp dungeon, where she could keep a watchful eye on Arya as her gashes was sewn closed. 

“Fully healed,” Sam said, although his tone made it known he didn’t understand why it was so. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself when she was first brought in, I’d never be able to guess.” He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe the magic healed her. Maybe the cold repaired her. There is so little documentation about the White Walkers and their gifts it’s hard to know.” 

That, was good news. She took it as a sign that Arya was on her way back to her. “Thank you, Sam.”

He nodded, left the cell and then turned back. “I think we’ll know soon. She’ll either wake up a Wight or she’ll wake as if this never happened.” Daenerys knew which one she’d be praying for. 

R-C 

Varys was beginning to become concerned. His birds hadn’t been speaking much of late. News from the farthest corners of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond hadn’t made its way to Dragonstone, to him in more than a week. 

Even reports from Daenerys and the armies in the North were growing increasingly hard to come by. He wasn’t sure what to think. He’d always thought of himself as a realistic pessimist and still he expected Daenerys to have returned by now. There had been no trouble during his time in charge of Dragonstone, but he felt a growing unease the longer he was left in command. The arrival of the Iron Fleet was unexpected, and he immediately sent them to secure the waters around King’s Landing, for their Queen. Cutting off Cersei’s flow of supplies would be invaluable to their future plans, provided anyone returned from the North alive. 

He was just about to close his book and retire to his chambers when he heard a commotion from one of the outer rooms. Getting to his feet, he moved quickly without running. In the hall he paused to listen but heard nothing. He took another few steps and listened again, still silence. The Unsullied who usually patrolled the halls were gone and he hadn’t seen a single servant for over an hour. What was going on?

He opened the door without any real fear. He was more annoyed than afraid. He knew better than most that without a strong leader even the most highly trained and dedicated soldiers could shirk their duties. Perhaps Daenerys had just been away too long. 

In the room where he’d first heard the noise he was met with something he thought he’d never see. Cersei Lannister inside Dragonstone. Next to her was her Hand and a bear of a man Varys recognized as the Clegane. “How?” he heard himself wonder aloud. How could any of this be possible? Cersei was in King’s Landing. She’d never leave. Even if she was willing, the routes to Dragonstone were blocked by the Ironborn. He’d heard nothing of any attacks, no vessels were caught trying to sneak through the blockade. Then there was the castle itself, protected by loyal Unsullied. How could she get in? It didn’t seem possible and yet she was there. She’d found a way somehow. 

“A valid question,” Cersei said, sounding pleased with herself. Varys looked around for any potential aid and found none. He counted three distinct pools of blood on the floor, but the bodies had been moved. The Mountain held his sword in one hand and Varys saw more red than steel. “Did you really think your blockade would stop me?” Varys knew that wasn’t a question he was meant to answer so he said nothing. “That I didn’t still have friends from the Iron Islands who would serve me? Did you really think I didn’t plan for this? That I didn’t have a way out of King’s Landing unknown to anyone, that I didn’t have supplies and gold ready and waiting for me?” 

Qyburn enjoyed her monologue. Smiling along as Varys struggled to put the pieces together. When it was clear she was finished, he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “In addition to knowing a way out of King’s Landing, she also knew a way into Dragonstone.”

“He’s right,” Cersei confirmed. After all that digging you and your Queen did under the castle, I was certain you’d have more guards.” Varys had stationed guards there. Nearly a dozen in fact. “Not that it would have saved you,” she added as an afterthought. She shook her head as though chastising an unruly child. “Even with all your birds and all those whispers you hear I’m surprised you didn’t know Robert always intended Dragonstone to be our safe haven in the event King’s Landing fell.”

 

For a man who prided himself on knowing what others were plotting, Varys was woefully ignorant to this. He hadn’t known that Robert considered Dragonstone as anything more than a trophy of his victory over the Targaryens. He hadn’t known that a secret route into the castle existed and he certainly didn’t know that Cersei was aware of it. He had considered the possibility that some of the Iron Islander’s commitment might be questionable but didn’t think enough would betray Daenerys to pose a real threat. He’d failed, and it was going to cost him his life. 

“What would you have us do with him, your Grace?” Qyburn asked almost joyfully, a sickening smirk on his face. He’d never liked Varys and now he was getting the ultimate revenge. 

“Dear Varys,” she said reaching out and petting his cheek in a show of mock tenderness. “I’m going to need you to pass along one more message. Tell that Queen of yours that Dragonstone belongs to me. She chose to wed a Northerner, a bastard no less, so she will do as all Southern Ladies do when they wed Northmen, go North and stay North.”

Knowing fully that it would lead to his death, Varys didn’t even consider it. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to refuse, your Grace,” he said filling her title with as much contempt as he could. 

“You will send my message Spider, whether it’s told in words or blood is up to you.” 

He wasn’t frightened by her. Whether he did her will or not, he was dead. He’d once been in this very building when he stood up to another ruler. Then, it was a distinct possibility he’d be fed to a dragon. By comparison not even the Mountain was much of a motivator. “Do what you will,” he said pushing out a long, slow breath and squaring his shoulders. 

The nod was slight, but Varys saw it and knew what it meant. Without looking, he heard the movement of plate armor as the Mountain prepared to do Cersei’s bidding. In spite, he decided to show her he wasn’t the only one who’d been bested. “King’s Landing isn’t as secure as you think,” he remarked, “or did you imagine Lady Sand broke her own neck in your dungeon.”

“Wait!” she roared upon hearing his last words. She even went as far as to reach for the Clegane’s arm, but it was too late. The sword was already coming down. Gravity did the rest. Fire and Blood, he thought. Daenerys would avenge him in Fire and Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I figure the people reading this will either hate this chapter or love it. The final battle with the Night King is next, more death is guaranteed.


	18. Chapter 18

The strategy was sound. Daenerys didn’t doubt it was their only chance of success. Without Bran and Melisandre, their connection to the future was broken. What would happen next was just as unknown to them as it was to everybody else now. The only hint they had was Bran’s last piece of advice. It’s why they left the day after honoring him in the crypt, why she left Arya chained unconscious in the dungeon when she wanted to be with her more than anything. 

According to the dead man they needed to meet the Night King and kill him before he could reach Winterfell. The young Stark had been supremely confident that waiting inside the gates was a plan destined to fail. The White Walkers would overrun them and once Winterfell was theirs, the rest Westeros wouldn’t be far behind. 

The scheme called for their forces to be divided. The Dothraki would be the first wave. Atop their fastest horses they’d have the task of dealing with the Wights. For any plot against the Night King to prevail, they needed to create separation between the White Walkers and their legion of Wights. They were doomed unless the Dothraki could lure them into a chase. On horseback they’d have the advantage, and through heavy snows the Wights would be bogged down and less dangerous. 

Yara’s force was made up of Northmen, soldiers from the Vale and the Ironborn. Their task was to finish what the Dothraki began. Their role was to use flaming arrows from elevated positions to thin out the Wight horde. While the majority of the men attacked the Wights, Yara and her best would focus on the White Walkers controlling them. Fletchers had been working non-stop to increase the supply of dragonglass tipped arrows. For every White Walker they killed, handfuls of Wights would fall. 

Only after the Wights were largely engaged would the other two teams reveal themselves. Grey Worm would lead the surviving Unsullied. Mixed in they had a few dozen sell-swords who’d joined their cause as well. He’d take the dedicated, fearless soldiers straight at the Night King’s layer of protective White Walkers. Daenerys had spent time drawing a diagram of what she’d seen from Drogon’s back. She did her best to recall the formation they stood in, how far apart they were and even what animals they had with them, be it horse, snow bear or dragon. If they were lucky, without the Wights to rely on, the Night King will need to send most of his men against the Unsullied, leaving him vulnerable for Jon, Daenerys and the others. 

Just as Bran said, Jon had picked the best of them. Brienne, Jaime, Jorah and Daenerys. She didn’t belong with them, she was barely able to swing a sword but no one else could be counted on to tame her dragon. 

Including Jon, three men and two women aided by Drogon would wait in the clouds until the fighting was at its peak and then would attack the Night King directly. He was sure to have several White Walker guards, but the objective was clear. Kill the leader. 

The dragons were the only part that couldn’t be accounted for. They intended to use Drogon to place them close enough to the Night King to strike, but beyond that what Daenerys’s largest son did or didn’t do was unpredictable. No one had seen or heard Rhaegal since the last battle and Daenerys feared the worst. Between the men and the dragons, they’d done Viserion harm, cutting his belly, and biting his neck but he’d been healthy enough to ferry the Night King away. Daenerys steeled herself in preparation for watching her children fight again, probably to the death. 

“What are our chances?” she asked Jon. 

He looked up from the map he’d been reviewing. “A coin toss,” he admitted. “If we can get the Wights coming this way,” he said, moving a block to show his idea, “bring Yara’s men down here,” he said using another, “maybe we can do it.”

She appreciated his honesty, but it didn’t inspire much in the way of confidence. It must have shown on her face. “You don’t have to be there tomorrow. You can go back to Winterfell, stay with Sansa, with Arya.” 

Although she wanted to be with Arya badly, this needed to end, and she needed to be a part of it. “I’m where I belong.” She owed the Night King a painful death for what he’d done to the woman she loved. “Do you think she’s going to wake up?”

They both knew who she meant. “I hope so.”

Just once she wished he’d lie, even if he wasn’t very good at it. Knowing she had Arya to go back to would make what was coming next more tolerable. As it was, she wasn’t sure if she was protecting her by doing battle with the White Walkers or avenging her. 

R-C

They were all tense as they stayed hidden, none more so than her husband. Those moving below looked like ants, scurrying in one direction or the next. The arrival of the Dead brought blowing snow that made getting a clear understanding of things even more difficult. She didn’t need to ask, she understood the concerns that weren’t confessed. The warriors on Drogon were some of the bravest in the Realm. None of them liked the idea of avoiding the battle, no matter the reason. The greater good was fine in theory but in practice it went against everything they stood for. 

The spot they chose was less than two hours away from Winterfell. If they failed this time, the castle would belong to the Night King by sunrise and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms would be lost. 

The Dothraki played their part to perfection. With shrieks they rode straight at he first row of Wights and swung arakh, swords and crude weapons of dragonglass. Before things could begin in earnest a horn was sounded and every Dothraki and their horse that was able broke away. This was it. If they didn’t chase after them, the plan would collapse. She’d instructed the Dothraki to not go too quickly. It had been Jorah’s idea really, to let the Wights believe they were just a few steps behind. It was genius and to Daenerys’s delight it was working. 

Squeezing her legs around Drogon she prompted him to move them to a better position. A few flaps of his wings and they had an ideal perch to see the spot where Yara and the archers hid behind intentionally crafted mounds of snow. Trenches were dug, not dissimilar to the previous battle. Without wildfire they’d need to settle for a more traditional flame. Daenerys was certain she wasn’t the only one on Drogon holding her breath as she waited for Yara’s band to expose themselves. 

From so high up, the arrow looked pathetic as it arced through the air. Tipped in dragonglass, and already burning it struck the first White Walker. It was an invitation to the others and all at once there were hundreds of arrows flying. At the signal the fleeing Dothraki turned their horses and began killing. This hadn’t been part of the plan, but Daenerys saw an opportunity. She urged Drogon lower and then spoke his favorite word. “Dracarys.” He spit fire in a long line, burning the last three rows of Wights and creating a temporary wall of flames to prevent escape. 

As Drogon took her to their destination, Daenerys listened to the deaths of hundreds, Wights and men. The highly trained Unsullied were the opposite of the wild and fierce Dothraki but comparable in skill. They moved as one, shields tight together, spears sticking out. Not one soldier in the thousands broke rank as they made their way through the snow. Some Wights remained, the few who hadn’t given chase. Without their overwhelming numbers they were easily dealt with. For a second time those on the dragon could only just watch. The Unsullied got closer and the White Walkers didn’t move. They stayed where they were in a protective shell around the Night King. 

Daenerys saw red when her eyes found him. She wanted to kill him with her bare hands. He’d hurt Arya. To her that was an unforgivable sin. He was flanked on one side by a White Walker and a bear and on the other by Viserion who had taken flight but was hovering with his feet just inches off the snow. 

With less than twenty yards between them the White Walkers remained unchanged. When something did happen, it wasn’t the White Walkers closest to the Unsullied but further back. The Night King held out an empty hand and was handed a spear by his associate. Daenerys remembered him using such a weapon to harm two of those she loved most. There wouldn’t be a third. She urged Drogon higher, hoping to make it harder for him to reach them, but he didn’t look up. Instead he took two long running steps forward and heaved the spear straight at Grey Worm. She gasped and thought of Missandei as it approached. The Unsullied stopped moving and closed their formation even further. The incoming spear hit Grey Worm in the center of his shield and he immediately dropped it. Daenerys’s concern for him multiplied until she saw one of the men behind him pass a shield forward to replace the one he’d lost. 

The Night King was visibly unhappy with the results. Drawing his sword, he waved it forward in a universal signal to march. “It worked,” Brienne said in obvious wonder. 

“Let’s get down there,” Jorah suggested as the White Walkers walked, ran and galloped on horseback toward Grey Worm and his men. 

“No,” Jon disagreed. “We need to wait until they’re fighting.”

“What about the dragon?” the Lannister asked. “Last time he nearly killed us all.” 

She leaned forward slightly and stroked the side of Drogon’s neck. “Drogon will handle Viserion. We just need to focus on the Night King and the White Walkers.” 

“Easier said than done.”

He wasn’t wrong about that. “Daenerys is right,” Jon said. “Brienne you and Jaime take the right, Jorah you and Daenerys the left. Hold them back for as long as you can, but if you’re overrun, fall back and we’ll all meet in the center.”

“What about you?” the knight asked. 

“I’ll go after the Night King, and try and separate him from the others,” Jon decided. “The less support he has, the better our chances.”

Under them the Unsullied were in heated combat with the White Walkers. A handful remained with their King, but the bulk of them were attacking the freed slaves. Some were going past them to reinforce the Wights. This was it. One way or another everything was going to be different tomorrow. 

R-C

She was in the Godswood with no memory of how she got there. It didn’t matter. Her feet knew the way and carried her with ease. He had his back to her when she arrived, but she would recognize him anywhere. “Father?” she said, her voice breaking. 

He didn’t stop sharpening Ice, the famed Stark blade. “Arya,” he replied. She could hear the smile in his voice. 

When he finally turned he looked as youthful as the day she’d last seen him, that day, in King’s Landing. He smiled at her and she felt safe. Safer than she had at any point since. “I’ve missed you so much,” she confessed. She wanted to run to him, to hug him and never let go but for reasons she couldn’t make sense of her legs wouldn’t cooperate. 

“I’m always with you,” he said, “you’re my Little Wolf.”

Her heart was going to burst. No one else in the world had ever called her Little Wolf, only him. 

“Nice sword,” he said casually looking suggestively toward her belt. 

She hadn’t noticed but Needle was there, hanging down, looking clean, and sharp. “Jon gave it to me, don’t you remember?” She tried to draw the weapon but just like her feet, her hands refused to obey. 

“Whose blood is that?” he asked, his voice turning hard, his smile disappearing, his eyes staying on Needle. She looked and found the blade dripping with blood, from the hilt all the way to the narrow tip. 

She felt compelled to answer him, she wanted to, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know. She tried to think back, who had she killed recently with Needle? Suddenly she was overcome with a headache that made it hard to keep from screaming. Her legs stopped holding her and her arms were useless as she fell. In her mind she saw them all, every person she killed, beginning with that first stable-boy in King’s Landing. His death was an accident, but she couldn’t say that about the others. Not the deaths Jaqen committed on her behalf, or the ones she did on her own while with the Hound. They came faster then, those she killed in service to the Many Faced God, during her training and after. She relived the murders she’d done since returning to Westeros, the Freys, Littlefinger, Euron, Ellaria, the Gold Cloak blocking her escape in the Red Keep and the guard she killed to rescue Jon. 

When she finally got to the end her father was standing over her expectantly. “Whose blood is it Arya?” he asked again as he helped her back to her feet. 

She opened her mouth tell him she didn’t know, to confess that she killed so many she couldn’t possibly be sure but different words came out. “I didn’t know his name, he was just a boy.”

Her first kill. She was a murderer long before she went to Braavos. Her father stared at her for a moment and she would have apologized if her lips were working properly.

“Did you come to say your prayers?” he asked her. 

She didn’t know why she was there but felt herself nodding. She bowed her head as he taught her and began whispering to the Old Gods. 

“No,” he said fiercely after she managed only a few words. “Not my Gods, your God, the Many Faced God. You and your kind pray to him, don’t you?”

Her kind, he knew of the Faceless Men. So, her father knew who she was and what she’d done. She was dizzy. 

“All those lives, your prayers for the wicked must take a long time,” he noted, his tone cold and empty of the love he once held for her. 

She stared at him, her eyes full of tears that were a second away from dropping, blurring her view of the father she hadn’t seen in years. She said nothing, but he did. “How does it go, ‘I do bad things for good reasons…’

When she was a girl, her father was her hero. The honorable Ned Stark, righteous and true Ned Stark, faithful and loyal. Standing before him, listening to him recite the words she spoke to seek forgiveness for her murders, it made her feel like she was dying. 

For a second time she was unable to stand. On the ground she cried into the snow, while her father kept saying a prayer that was never meant for a man as decent as him. When he got to the end his words cut her deeper than any blade ever had. “You’re not my daughter,” he said, “no daughter of mine would do the things you have.”

It was faint, so soft she barely could hear it over her panting and sobs. A voice, Bran’s voice. “It’s going to be okay. Hold on.”

She didn’t want to hold on. She’d just lost him again, and this time he left with the knowledge of how she’d shamed him. This was even worse than the first time. She felt like she was dying before, now she wanted to.

R-C

Jon was the first one off Drogon. A White Walker took a swing, but his sword was ready. Knowing better than to kick at him this time, he tore his sword down and then immediately thrust it back up. The unexpected action caught the White Walker off guard and he couldn’t prevent the Valyrian steel from entering under his chin and piercing his brain. He crumbled, and Jon continued on. 

The first time their swords met Jon noticed the difference. The Night King wasn’t as strong. He leaned in for a look, before he was knocked way. The wound Arya had given him was no longer bleeding, but the typically smooth skin had the veins of cracking ice, the way a White Walker did right before it shattered under dragonglass. He decided to test his observation and took an angle that would force the Night King to strain the damaged area. He got his blade down, but Jon could tell it was slower and weaker than it had been the last time. He thought of Arya. She’d be happy to know she’d left her mark. 

R-C

“Is it ready?” a woman asked as she fussed over Arya’s long dark hair. 

“Is what ready?” She felt a tightness in her chest. Her eyes opened, and she realized she was in her childhood bedroom back in Winterfell, the one she shared with Sansa. Her older sister wasn’t there, but her mother was. 

“Don’t be silly, Arya this is important,” the familiar voice pressed. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she admitted, doing what she could to resist the urge to knock her mother’s hands away. 

Catelyn Stark sighed dramatically. “Arya, we talked about this.”

She couldn’t wait any longer. She jumped up and threw herself into her mother’s arms. “Mother, it’s you!” 

“By the Gods Arya what’s gotten into you?” Catelyn responded. Arya didn’t care that her mother was upset with her, it didn’t matter. She squeezed her tightly and felt a wave of disappointment when she didn’t hug back. “Arya, we’re already running late because you chose to go out riding instead of preparing. This celebration is in your honor, you should have been helping to make sure everything is perfect.” 

“What kind of celebration?” 

Her mother laughed, expecting Arya to join in. “Don’t tell me you forgot your own nameday.” 

Today was not her nameday. Still bothered by the tightness across her chest she sought to explain it and found she was wearing a constricting, dark blue dress. No wonder every breath was an effort, if the thing was any tighter something would pop out the top. She tried to turn, to move from side to side and couldn’t manage more than an awkward shuffling of her feet. Those same feet were crammed into shoes that were too small, forcing her to curl her toes to fit. How could she possibly fight in this? It was absurd. “Mother what am I wearing, I don’t wear dresses.”

“Of course, you do,” she countered. “I know they aren’t your favorite thing but all the guests at the feast will expect to see you in one and you need to make a good impression.” Before she could ask why, Catelyn inquired, “Who is on your list?”

That was the first thing her mother said that made any sense. Her List, that was something she knew well. “Cersei Lannister, The Mountain, The Freys, Polliver, Joffrey, Rorge, Meryn Trant, Jaime Lannister, Ilyn Payne.”

Her mother who had been merely annoyed before was furious now. “Arya!” she shouted. “You promised you’d take this seriously. Those names…”

“I am serious,” she said with conviction. She never joked about the List. 

“Cersei is married to King Robert, Joffrey is promised to your sister and I don’t know all of the others but some I am certain are already wed.” Her mother rambled, growing more exasperated with every word she had to say. 

“Wed?” she repeated back, sensing that was the important bit.

“Arya the feast begins in an hour. Your father and I have been patient, you need to choose a suitor. Every eligible bachelor in the North and some from the South will be in attendance.”

What!? She wasn’t getting married! Certainly not some stuffy Lord or his son. She’d been in love exactly one time in her life and that was with Daenerys. She smiled when she thought of her Dragon, but her mother’s anger pushed the thought away as quickly as it came. 

“Arya, I don’t want to have this discussion with you again. The time has come for you to accept a husband or your father and I will do it for you.”

“No!”

“You will do it and you’ll do it tonight,” Catelyn decided. “You will be on your best behavior and represent our family well. Many people are travelling a long way to be here.”

“They shouldn’t have,” she snapped. “I’m not getting married.” 

Her mother threw up her hands. “The wedding isn’t today, you know that. We just want you to choose someone, so we can begin the negotiations with his family.”

She wasn’t a piece of cattle to be auctioned off. She couldn’t be negotiated for like a harvest of grain. “I’m not marrying anyone, today or any day until I decide.” 

“Why do you have a list then?” her mother asked. “What is it for if you don’t intend to marry one of the men on it as your father and I have instructed?”

She didn’t even consider lying. “Those are the people I’m going to kill.”

Her mother was not impressed. “Arya you’re nearly sixteen, far too old for such childish jokes. This is important. You will be married by the end of the year…”

Sixteen? That couldn’t be possible. She searched for a mirror and saw a younger version of herself reflected back at her. It also struck her that the dress lacked sleeves and yet her arms weren’t dotted with the litany of scars she was used to. What was happening?

“I’m not getting married,” she said, feeling her own anger grow the longer this strange conversation went on. “I’m not Sansa, I’m not a perfect Lady. I want to ride horses and swing my sword, not marry some boring, fat Lord or Lordling and fetch his wine.” 

“You are a Lady Arya, and no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise that will never change. You can’t do as your brothers do, it’s simply not possible.”

“It is possible,” she resisted. “I’ve done it. I can cross the Narrow Sea by myself, I can learn to fight, I can sell oysters on the docks, I can save lives and take lives all on my own. I don’t need a man for that.”

Her mother’s patience had reached its limit. “Arya don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never done any of those things. I’ve had enough of this. You can finish your hair on your own and then I expect you downstairs for when the guests start to arrive.”

“I have!” she shouted. “I won’t be there. I won’t marry someone just because you say so!” 

“You’ll do as your told,” her mother made clear. “You have duties to this house and this family and you will fulfill them.”

“By marrying someone I don’t love?” she asked, unable to keep the bite from her words. “I’d rather die.”

“Stop pretending to be something you’re not Arya. You are not like your brothers. You’re a Princess of Winterfell and it’s time to act like one.” 

She cried like a girl when she was alone. Why had her mother treated her like that? Why would she force her into an unwanted marriage? The mother she remembered was kind and caring. 

“Fight,” she heard Bran say. His voice was a little louder, a little closer this time but she still couldn’t see him. “Fight it.”

R-C

Daenerys wasn’t much of a swords-woman. Compared to the men and woman she was accompanying now she was little more than a child playing a game she wasn’t suited for. Wielding a Valyrian steel sword the way her ancestors would have, she did her best to strike when the White Walker was occupied by Jorah. She had yet to reach her target, but she was coming closer each time. 

“Khaleesi, stay back. I’ll handle this.” That was not going to happen. She couldn’t do nothing. She would fight, risking no less than the common man or woman who was bleeding or dying all over the field. Besides, she had unfinished business with the Night King. 

After Jorah’s sword clashed with the White Walker’s, Daenerys sensed an opening. She rushed at his side, eager to finish the fight. She kept the sword up near her face, ready to deflect a blow if he turned on her. He didn’t but didn’t need to. Help came in the form of a snarling bear who was near invisible in the blowing snow. If he hadn’t opened his mouth, giving her a glimpse of pink in the sea of white she would have missed him entirely. The huge beast pinned her under his weight and she squirmed feebly to try and wriggle free. 

Jorah yelled her name and she turned her head to the side. Giving up his attack on the White Walker he raced to her at the same time the bear’s mouth closed in on her neck. They collided at the same time. She felt the sting of icy teeth against her throat for just a second before Jorah pushed his sword through the bear’s back. He died on Daenerys. She reached up and touched the spot where he’d almost bitten. Her fingers came away wet with small spots of blood. “Are you hurt?” he asked, pushing the animal away and offering her a hand up. 

“Thank you,” she said with feeling. He’d saved her life, and not for the first time. She was reaching for his hand when she noticed. Her mouth opened to warn Jorah, but the words dried up. By the time she was standing, it was over. The White Walker was there, ready to strike back. He didn’t even turn, keeping his eyes on her the whole time, even after the sword went through his back. “No!” she cried as Jorah staggered forward into her arms. She did her best to catch his body. 

The bear had knocked the sword from her hand and she didn’t know where it landed. Jorah still had his, but she’d need to drop him to take it. Another idea came to her. “Dracarys!” 

Drogon was there, providing support from above. He didn’t need to be told twice. With Jorah dying or dead and with her immune to fire, she didn’t fear what would happen. Drogon spit flames, causing the White Walker to turn and address him. Using his command of the snow he produced a wind that snuffed out the flame. Drogon kept pushing, kept trying to overwhelm him, and the White Walker remained resistant. 

With time to recover Daenerys settled Jorah down on the snow carefully. She didn’t need to be a Maester to know the wounds were fatal. He had a hole in his chest and a larger one in his back. “I’m so sorry,” she said to her friend as she took his sword. 

“N…no regret…regrets,” he said spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Long live… the Queen.”

With the White Walker struggling to keep Drogon at bay, he wasn’t ready for her. She walked over with purpose and sucked in a deep breath as she gripped the blade with both hands. It wasn’t graceful or smooth the way she’d seen Arya do it, it was choppy and strained but it was enough. The Valyrian steel shattered the White Walker on contact and Daenerys was glad to see him dead. She returned to Jorah and found his eyes open, but empty. He was gone. Drogon landed and she climbed on. From several feet up she burned Jorah’s body, unwilling to let him return as a Wight. 

R-C

Robb was in Winterfell’s Great Hall when she found herself there without explanation. He smiled when he saw her, and she ran to him. They embraced. “Little sister, I’m so glad you’re here. This is long overdue.”

She talked into his chest, not willing to let him go quite yet. “I missed you,” she promised, “so much.” 

When they separated she got her first look around the room. It was empty except for them. None of the others were there, no guards, no servants, just a lot of empty chairs. “Would you like some water?” Robb offered kindly. 

She shook her head. She wasn’t thirsty. “Where is everyone?”

He gave her a look, one she didn’t understand at first. When she did, it made even less sense. He was looking at her as if the answer was obvious. As though she was a fool for even asking. “I can’t very well have my family here while we meet, can I?” 

“What? Why not? Where are mother and father, where is your wife?”

“Mother and father no longer live here,” he said, again in that tone. “I’m the Warden of the North now.”

Well that answered half of her questions. “What about your wife and your child? Where are they? I wish to meet them.”

“I’m sure you do, but if you think I’m letting you within ten miles of my beautiful wife or my growing son you’re mad.”

Each word was another blow. Why was he saying these things? “W…what? What did I do? Why can’t I meet them?”

“What’s wrong with Daenerys?” Robb asked, his handsome face turning into a scowl when he said her name. “Getting tired of her, ready to toss her aside and steal another wife from another brother?”

Breathing was a struggle. That’s why he was upset? He was angry because she loved Daenerys? “It wasn’t like that!” she protested. “Jon…”

“Jon was your brother and he loved you. He trusted you to protect Daenerys and you betrayed him.” He said nothing for a time and Arya found herself unable to speak either. Robb got his ability back before she did. “Do you feel guilty when you’re holding his child, and bedding his wife or do you just not care?” 

“I care and it’s not like that!” she yelled, trying to push back the tears that were threatening. “It didn’t happen like that. I was with her first, she loves me, and Jon understands.”

“He understands?” Robb mocked. “Did he tell you that before or after you stole his wife and child, before or after he jumped from the Wall to end his suffering?” 

That did it, the tears were flowing. “H…he did … did what?”

“Don’t play dumb Arya, I know you got a raven, as we did.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t. What did it say?”

“It said Jon couldn’t take the thought of living another day without Daenerys and the baby, so he was going to the Wall to end his life.”

“T…that’s not true,” she objected, struggling to remember. Jon knew, Jon was happy for them. 

“It is true!” Robb said bringing his hand down hard on the table. “Our brother is dead because you took the two people that mattered most from him.”

She tried to think, to explain but her memories were all jumbled. Fragments of her and Jon before Daenerys and after, glimpses of her and Daenerys before her marriage and more recently. Nothing was in the right place, in the right order. The mix was so thorough that she didn’t even know where to start to correct it. She just cried.

“Save the tears. The servants are packing your things, take them and go. You’re no longer welcome in Winterfell or anywhere in the North. If you return, I’ll swing the sword myself.” 

“For what crime!” she demanded to know.

“Theft, for stealing a man’s wife and child.”

Bran’s voice spoke to her again. This time he sounded close enough to be in the same room but wasn’t. “Don’t believe it, Arya!” 

R-C

For a moment Jon thought he had him. He’d been forcing the Night King to use his injured arm and capitalizing on the slight delay. It wasn’t much. At the same time, he tried to direct him toward a rock formation covered in ice, hoping to trap him there. When his icy sword tried to take his head, Jon ducked under and brought his blade with him. He cut across the Night King’s middle, not deep enough to kill, but drawing blood just as Arya had. Before he could try again, Viserion landed between them, forcing Jon back to avoid being crushed. He raised his sword in protest but didn’t get a chance to use it before the dragon was spitting blue flames. He dove out of the way.

R-C

The sun was on her face, and for a few seconds she savored it in blissful ignorance. She was standing in the center of a large field, unable to move. She tried to yell, tried to walk, to sit and couldn’t. Time was infinite while she waited for something to happen. Change came in the form of a spot on the horizon. It was far away but after a few minutes of watching Arya was able to determine it was a person coming in her direction. She looked down for a weapon, even knowing it would be pointless with her body unwilling to heed her instructions. She wore Needle on her hip and had the dagger Bran had given her on the front of her coat. 

It took her too long to realize who it was. It had been years since she’d last seen him. He was a babe then and now was a growing young man. Still, she cursed herself for not seeing it sooner. Rickon. She wanted to yell his name, to wave him over but she was still trapped. She was trying to decide how to remedy that when the first arrow pierced the ground, landing three feet in front of her brother and nearly two feet to his right. 

Arya’s heart picked up speed in her chest. She’d heard about Rickon’s fate, from Jon, Sansa and others who were there. She knew how he died and she knew who killed him. Ramsay was dead by the time she returned to Winterfell. A blessing for him. If he breathed when Arya got there, she would have taken joy in torturing him. She would have made it last much longer than a few bites from his prized hounds. 

The second arrow missed, and she kept trying to fight, to break free of whatever was holding her, but she failed. She wasn’t strong enough. She regained the ability to speak when he was just ten feet in front of her. “Rickon!” she yelled to him, pleased to be making some progress. 

He looked at her, took a moment to realize who she was and then smiled. “Arya,” he said, right before the arrow entered his back. He fell toward her and her arms were allowed to move to catch him. “Why?” he asked as she cradled him on the ground. 

“Why what?” she asked gently, checking the area around the wound. It was fatal. There was nothing she could do. If she took it out, he’d only die faster. 

“Why weren’t you here to help me?” he asked in a weak voice. 

He was right. She should have been there to save him. She should have been there to protect Sansa from Ramsay and to keep Rickon from dying before he had a chance to grow old. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“W…what makes them so special?”

She didn’t know who he meant. “What do you mean? Who?”

“The people you saved, the people you killed. Why did they matter more than your brother?” He coughed, and blood dribbled down his chin. “You said you’d always protect me and you lied.”

He was right again. She did make that promise and if one of them needed to die, why not her? She was certainly more deserving of death than Rickon. He never did harm to anyone. His only crime was being born a Stark. By the time she was prepared to answer, he was gone. 

Able to move now, able to speak freely and run, she no longer wanted to. She held her dead brother and apologized for everything while she cried. 

“Arya, focus on what’s important,” Bran’s voice said to her. “Remember Sansa, Daenerys, and Jon. Think of Daenerys’s baby.”

R-C

Viserion was hard to miss, big as he was. The bright blue flames he shared were almost beautiful in their own way, or they would have been if they hadn’t been directed at her husband. Jon managed to get out of the way before they struck but Daenerys didn’t like his chances against both a dragon and the Night King. He needed her help, Drogon’s help. 

Her son spit fire of his own at his brother and caught him by surprise, burning the right side of his head, from his ear down to his mouth. His pain was likely the only thing that prevented him from attacking Jon a second time before the man could recover. 

Flapping his wings, he rose to meet them. Drogon was waiting. Again, she watched blue flames battle red, each one pushing the other a little, trying to seize the upper hand. As happened the last time, Drogon separated first. He took the burn briefly before he swooped down. Daenerys’s eyes barely found Jon before he reached the Night King again. Was it her imagination or was the leader of the Undead unsteady on his feet? As they passed Drogon aimed his rage at the Night King, and the ruler held up his white hand, calling forth wind and snow to counter the heat. Drogon’s response was to go even closer to the ground and keep trying. 

She didn’t realize what was happening at first. She felt weightless and disoriented. The trip to the ground was short, but painful. She landed on her back which gave her a perfect view to look up and see Drogon and his brother in combat. Dodging blue fire Drogon tried to get his teeth around Viserion’s neck. For an instant she thought he had before the smaller of the two pulled away. When Viserion flew fast to put distance between them, Drogon followed, leaving her alone. 

Brienne arrived at her side just as she was trying to sit. “Your Grace, are you alright?” 

Jaime was holding off three Wights and their White Walker with only one hand. “I’m fine,” she said doing her best to appear sure. “Help him.”

It took one final nod from Daenerys to get her moving. She heard snarling, meeting steel and grunts of effort as she felt around in the snow for a weapon. Every step hurt, her back throbbed and her chest burned. She’d be of little help in battle in her state, but she could distract one or two of the Wights and give Brienne and Jaime a better chance. She limped forward, making as much noise as she could on the way. 

R-C

She was back at Highgarden on the same terrace where she met Lady Olenna. “Recognize this?” the old woman asked holding up a small glass vial with a clear liquid inside. 

Of course, she did. That was the poison she sent to kill Joffrey. Why did she still have it? Joffrey was dead. She meant to ask her question but when her mouth opened only the word, “Yes,” escaped. 

Olenna’s wrinkled held it out to her. “Drink it.” 

She gave the old woman a curious look. “You want me dead?” she said, smiling at the attempted joke. 

“It’s not what I want,” she replied. “It’s what you want.”

Had she lost her mind? “I don’t want to die.”

“Sure, you do. You’ve lost the woman you love, you’re running from your siblings and you’ve forsaken your God and your order. You shamed your father, embarrassed your mother, what reason do you have to continue living?” 

“Revenge,” she answered. She didn’t need to think about it. Her hate had sustained her for a long time. It would do so again. 

Olenna smiled like she knew exactly what the younger woman was thinking. “Perhaps once, before Daenerys, but now, I don’t think so.” 

Wait, how did Olenna know about her and Daenerys, she was already dead before they met? “How…”

“Hate fed the darkness inside you, but it’s not enough anymore. Now that you’ve experienced love, it’ll never be enough again. You don’t have to suffer Arya, I can help you, if you’d let me.” She tilted her hand and shook the vial lightly. “Take a drink and it’ll be over.”

“You want me to kill myself?” she asked in disbelief. 

“Wouldn’t it be better than going back to your life and continuing to disappoint and hurt everyone you love? Isn’t it better than going back and failing at the only tasks you’re suited for?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Night King, you couldn’t defeat him. You snuck up behind him and still lost. Jaqen would be disappointed, he taught you better than that. Tell me, without your sword, what are you, who are you?”

She was thinking about the answer when Olenna kept talking. “I found you in Braavos because I heard you could kill. If you can’t any longer, you’re no good to anyone, certainly not Jon and Daenerys. They need assassins who are capable of besting their targets, not weak girls who get injured, surviving only to become a burden.”

Her words hurt because they were true. She had failed to kill the Night King and her last memory involved being locked up under Winterfell, a danger to everyone who mattered to her. 

In a rush, the memories all came back; being with her father under the Weirwood, with her mother in her chambers, Robb in the Great Hall and Rickon on the field where he died. She relived her brief time with each of them, receiving the messages they brought with them. It was too much. “I…I failed them all.”

“Yes, you did,” Olenna agreed, “but you can still make things right. Drink and you’ll never fail anyone again. Drink this and you’ll have the peace you crave.” She took the offered vial and the old woman smiled. “You’re doing the right thing Arya. Everyone you love will be happier now.”

With a flick of her thumb she freed the stopper and stared down. Joffrey’s end was painful by all accounts, but she couldn’t deny she deserved a similar fate. She wasn’t that different from him, perhaps she was worse. Seeing her family again showed her just how severe the damage she caused was. It wasn’t something she could fix. She couldn’t be redeemed no matter how badly she wished it. She was too far gone. 

The vial was on its way to her lips when he spoke to her. “You don’t want to do that,” Bran said in a clear, even voice. 

She looked around, fully expecting him to be absent. That’s why it was such a surprise to find him standing there, on his own two legs. “Bran,” she said, closing her fist around the vial and lowering it to her side. “Your legs?”

“They got better,” he stated simply. 

She was speechless for a moment, unable to believe it. “W…what? How can that be?” 

“You’ll understand soon,” he promised. They stood there looking at one another. “Are you going to drink that?” he asked. 

Her face heated with shame, realizing he knew what she planned to do. “Maybe it’s better this way. I don’t deserve to live, father was right, and Robb, mother and Rickon too.”

Bran slowly shook his head. “You didn’t fail them Arya, and you didn’t see our father or mother, none of it was real.”

She bristled at the idea. “I saw them!” she said. “I talked to them, they knew things.”

“It wasn’t real Arya, it was…” he paused to choose his words, “it was something else.” 

Keeping up was growing difficult. She didn’t understand much of what was happening recently and now Bran’s presence, with his working legs was only complicating things further. “It was what?” 

He took another pause to decide how to explain it and then he tried. “Think of it like a mirror. It wasn’t showing you our real family, the way a mirror doesn’t show you a true image of yourself, only a reflection.” 

That made even less sense than what he’d been saying before. “What was it reflecting then?”

“Your fears, your regrets, your shortcomings,” he answered without delay. “It was showing you all the things you hate about yourself.” 

“That’s not right, I’m not afraid…”

“Think about it,” he encouraged, “a father who can’t forgive you for all the lives you’ve taken, a mother who refuses to accept you aren’t a Lady and never will be. A brother who rejects your relationship with Daenerys and another who blames you for not being there when he needed you.”

She was still confused. “That can’t be… I saw them. They were right.”

“Think about it Arya,” he insisted. “Would father ever disown you, regardless of what you did? Would Robb threaten to execute you? Would our mother try and force you into a marriage against your will?”

She didn’t know what to think. “I…”

“Daenerys needs you Arya. She’s making herself sick with worry over you.”

Remembering her conversation with Olenna, Arya rejected the idea. “She’d be better off without me.”

Both Starks looked to the woman from Highgarden. “I told you, it’s not real. She’s just a representation of your greatest fear in a form you’d recognize.”

“What fear?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

“That you’re nothing but an assassin. That if you aren’t killing, you’re of no use to anybody.” Hearing him say those words she realized how right he was. It hadn’t been that way before Daenerys, but it was now. Now she wanted to be more and she was terrified she couldn’t be.

“I’ve made so many mistakes…”

“It’s not too late,” Bran assured her. “You’re not just a killer Arya and you never were. If you never pick up another sword for the rest of your life, you’ll have a purpose, you’ll have a family and you’ll be loved, I swear.” 

Bran reached for her hand and pried open her fingers from around the vial. “Bran what are you…”

“Daenerys needs you back, Jon needs you back, Sansa needs you back, I need you, to go back. Go,” he urged, “I’ll always love you.”

“What about mother and father…”

“You’ll see us all again someday, I promise but not now.”

“I don’t…”

“Don’t be afraid of who you are Arya, there is nothing wrong with that person,” Bran said, sounding so sure. “She’s Sansa’s protector, Jon’s truest friend and the woman Daenerys loves more than anyone.”

R-C

He hadn’t the first clue how to kill a dragon, but luckily, he didn’t need to. Before he had to face Viserion on his own, Drogon took over. Now he was aware of them fighting overhead. If he wasn’t hearing cries from one dragon or the other, he could feel the icy chill of Viserion’s breath and the warmth of Drogon’s as it filled the air around him. The dragons could wait. He had to finish the Night King. 

So far everything had gone according to plan. The Wights were waist deep in snow, trapped there by Drogon’s fire, Yara’s men and the Dothraki. The majority of the White Walkers were engaged with the Unsullied and although the fighting was loud and intense they seemed to be holding up well. Even his own team, small as it was, was doing everything he could ever want. They were keeping the guards busy, so Jon could focus on the King. Now in addition to the injury Arya gave him, he also had a gash across his center. Jon thought for a moment about what sort of actions a wound like that would complicate. 

With both hands on his sword he raised it high above his head. With a cry he brought it down as hard as he could, aiming for the center of his icy crown. He didn’t expect the blow to land, and it didn’t. The Night King damaged as he was, was still stronger than him. He raised his sword to block, just as Jon expected him too. Any doubts he had about whether reaching up would cause his opponent pain were erased when he heard the wordless screech. He smiled to himself. 

R-C

Arya would have been proud of her. Or at least she’d like to think so. She was wielding her sword as though she’d been doing it all her life. It was far from flawless, but she had managed to keep two Wights busy at the same time, by alternating between them. Only one had a sword, the other tried to reach her with his boney hands. 

Aid had come not only for the living but the dead. Both Brienne and Jaime were being tested by a White Walker and Daenerys could see more Wights and White Walkers approaching. This wasn’t good. Turning one way she got the unarmed Wight to follow and then she spun back and thrusted her sword forward. It ran him through before he fell. Her success was short lived. A sword came down hard and she barely had time to spare her hand. The force of the strike loosened her grip and she dropped her weapon to her feet. She didn’t even consider taking her eyes off the Wight long enough to get it. 

He moved closer and she backed up, acutely aware that this strategy wouldn’t work for long. Either she’d run out of room to retreat or she’d run straight into another group of enemies, either way death would be assured. 

When he swung his sword, her options were limited. Unarmed she grabbed for his wrist. She hadn’t known then that her dragonblood would burn him. He hissed and ripped his arm free. Daenerys’s lips curled up. Perhaps she wasn’t unarmed after all. 

He came at her again, more cautiously this time. She stopped backing up, wanting him close. She stayed as still as she could and then vaulted herself in his direction suddenly. With one hand she tried to control his sword and with the other she reached or his face. As her finger pushed into his eye socket he hissed, bucking in pain. A small tendril of smoke leaked from the spot where her finger met his skull. Victory in one area led to failure in the other. With her attention on his face and the burn she was attempting to inflict, she wasn’t able to guide his sword. She tried to get it back, to re-establish a grip but couldn’t. They rolled around in the snow for several seconds. When it was done, she was on the bottom, pinned under him. His eye, the one she’d burned was gone, having fallen out during one of their rotations. He didn’t seem to mind, as he raised his sword in preparation for the kill. She closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t see it coming and thought of Arya. 

The Wight above her shrieked before the weight holding her down left her, knocked away by a hard kick. Jaime Lannister pulled his long sword from the body of the Wight who had wished her dead. The two of them shared a look in silence. On any other day they’d be enemies. He’d betrayed her father, murdered Olenna, crippled Bran and was loyal to Cersei more so than the Realm. She had no illusions about who he was, but his fate wasn’t to be decided now, and not by her. “Thank you,” she said truthfully. 

R-C

The first thing that was different was what she felt, or more accurately speaking what she didn’t feel. There was no pain. She distinctly remembered jumping from Rhaegal’s back and onto a White Walker, breaking her arm, yet it didn’t even sting. With her eyes closed she rolled her wrist slightly. It was stiff but functional, a vast improvement over what she remembered last. She took a slow, deliberate breath, expecting to feel the chill from the Night King’s spear but that too was absent. She only knew one reason for such a result. She had to be dead. She’d anticipated her death plenty in recent months, in King’s Landing, North of the Wall, and then multiple times during the battle with the Dead. She’d always been pleasantly surprised by the fact that she had managed to survive, but she doubted the streak of luck would continue. 

She didn’t feel bad about it. Death happened to everyone. Valar Morghulis. She was however disappointed. First that she’d failed to kill the Night King and second that she’d never get to meet Daenerys’s child. She was such a fool. She wasted so much time being angry about their situation. She could have been with the people she loved, making memories to take with her into whatever came next. 

For a long time, she laid there perfectly still, enjoying the lack of pain. She thought of Daenerys, going back to their meeting in the forest and slowly, pleasurably reliving every moment, even the difficult ones. She didn’t want to forget a single second she had with her Dragon. She recalled Daenerys kneeling next to her, worrying as she whispered her affections. Arya didn’t need to hear them, she already knew. She apologized for all she’d done wrong and Arya wished she had the strength to tell her then that she’d do it all again, if she could. She’d made more mistakes than any woman should, had no shortage of things to atone for and her regrets stacked taller than the Wall, but Daenerys wasn’t among them. She, Arya acknowledged, just might be the best choice the assassin ever made. 

With the thoughts of Daenerys brightening her mood she opened her eyes, prepared for whatever awaited her. Would it be her father, her mother, Robb and Rickon or fires and despair as the Septa warned? 

She couldn’t put the pieces together at first. She tried to move but was held firmly in place. Her eyes were clouded in a way that only happened after too much sleep. Arya wanted to reach up and clear things but couldn’t. She heard the chain rattle but didn’t connect it to her situation. 

“You’re awake!” a male voice said from a hidden place. “I thought you’d sleep forever.”

“Who are you?” she grumbled, hating how pathetic her voice sounded, so hoarse and unlike her. 

“Eddard,” he answered. Arya felt sick. Was this another one of those memories or nightmares or whatever they were she’d been having? The answer came after several painfully long seconds. “I was named after your father in fact. My family has been loyal to yours since before Robert’s Rebellion.” 

“Where am I?” 

“Winterfell m’lady.”

She looked around and recognized her home. “The dungeon.”

“You remember?” he questioned, sounding impressed. “The Priestess wasn’t sure you would.”

What was he going on about? “So, I’m not dead then?”

Eddard sounded horrified by her assumption. “Oh no, of course not. The King and Queen would never allow that.”

She struggled to understand. If she wasn’t dead, where was everybody? Where was Sansa, Jon, Bran and Daenerys? How long had she been unconscious? Not long enough for her injuries to heal surely, and yet evidence existed to the contrary. 

He showed his face, the young guard who didn’t look old enough to use the sword he wore. He had a youthful face clean of hair and dark eyes. “Lady Sansa will be so pleased to learn you’re awake.”

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, retching slightly in an attempt to clear the clog in her throat. She spit carelessly onto the floor at her side. 

“Days m’lady. The Maester wasn’t sure when you’d wake, if at all.” 

Days? It would take months to heal from the spear she remembered. She intended to seek clarification from Eddard when another question left her mouth without approval. “Where is everyone?”

“Battle m’lady. They went to defeat the Night King once and for all.”

Suddenly Arya’s acceptance of her bondage was less tolerable. They were fighting the war without her? She needed to go, she needed to help them. She knew the chains were strong, that the binds would hold but she yanked anyway, scrunching her face and grinding her teeth as she tried to tear the brace from the wall. “They’re gone?” she verified. 

“Lady Sansa remains,” Eddard informed her. “She was here earlier checking on you but went to the crypt to pay her respects.” 

Her need for freedom blossomed, with a dread she couldn’t shake off. The crypt. The only reason Sansa would go there was because someone was dead. Which person she loved had died while she was sleeping? Did Jon try to avenge her and fail or did Daenerys lose hold of her famous Targaryen temper and rush senselessly into danger? Neither thought was appealing. She had to swallow down a mouth of bile before she could get the words out. “Who’s dead?”

“Bran m’lady,” he said with sorrow. “I did not know your brother personally but there isn’t a man or woman in Winterfell who is not in awe of the sacrifice he and the Priestess made.” She remembered her time with Bran in the vision or dream or whatever it was. She heard his voice, saw him. It didn’t seem odd then, things rarely do in a dream, but outside of it, separate from it and very clearly awake she could see the flaw. Everyone she encountered was dead, her parents, Robb, Rickon, Olenna, and even Bran. 

In Braavos they taught her that knowledge was power, that information could be as deadly as any blade. She knew she didn’t have nearly enough information. “Tell me everything and bring me the key for these irons.”

R-C

One more time Jon forced the Night King to move in a way that would worsen his injuries. He lifted his sword to block and Jon noticed a slight shiver in the blade. He wasn’t the only one this fight was taking a toll on. The former Night’s Watch Commander was bleeding from his shoulder, his arm and left leg, but for once he could say his opponent had it worse. Every move seemed to take more of the Night King’s strength. Taking advantage, he jumped to create more power and brought the blade down with all his weight behind it. He hit the Night King in the center of the wrist, severing his hand from his arm. Blue blood spurted out as he recoiled. More words were exchanged that Jon would never understand. He was ready to go in for the kill. 

Viserion blocked him again, this time remaining in the air. Drogon caught up to him quickly, allowing Jon to focus elsewhere. He tried twice to reach the Night King, but a long tail swept from side to side, keeping him back. He couldn’t finish this if he couldn’t get close. Daenerys appeared at his side just before he took a swing at the dragon with his sword. 

His tail was layered with thick scales, protecting it from damage but Jon needed to do something. He couldn’t allow the Night King to flee or recover. He swung as hard as he could and the only reply he got from Viserion was a flick of his tail, knocking him away as easily as Jon might a fly. He hit the ground with a thud, losing his air. Through blurred vision he saw the dragons test one another. Viserion’s teeth sunk into Drogon’s skin and worse still he saw the Night King, missing one hand, but carrying his sword in the other. He was staring at Daenerys. Jon tried to stand. 

R-C

Daenerys didn’t have enough eyes to see everything that demanded her focus. Jon was sent flying after attempting to harm Viserion, Drogon was bleeding, crying out with Viserion’s large body on top of him. The Night King, bleeding and slow, marched forward, looking straight at her with his unsettling blue eyes. The extent of the damage became clear the closer he got. Jon had done much better this time. The leader of the Dead was favoring his stomach and lacked a hand. 

She didn’t know what to make of it when he dropped his sword from just three feet in front of her. She readied her weapon and prepared to strike. She put all her strength into it, fueled by the rage she felt over what he’d done to Arya, to Viserion and so many. He stopped her blade with his remaining hand, gripping it tightly and prying it away with a brief tug. She wanted to run, but something kept her there. The next thing she knew he was reaching for her stomach, his eyes bright and unblinking. Panic set in with the understanding. The baby. He somehow knew about the baby and meant to harm him. She wasn’t going to allow that to happen. 

Remembering what her blood had done to the Wight she prepared to try again. He touched her belly for only a moment, but she instantly felt cold. Fearing he was doing harm, she threw her hands out toward his face, striking and then pressing down hard. She could hear the sizzle of her skin melting his, but he didn’t seem as bothered by it as the Wight was. She pressed harder, digging her nails into his face, clawing at him with all her might. 

When she felt the dragonfire against her skin she thought of Drogon. She assumed he was too busy to help but apparently, she’d been wrong. The Night King backed away and looked up to repel the assault. He conjured wind and snow, with the same hand that had been on her. Daenerys squatted to pick up a sword. As she straightened the corner of her eye saw Drogon on the ground, snapping his teeth at Viserion, trying to keep his brother from killing him. She looked to the sky, to the dragon that saved her and smiled. Rhaegal. She thought he’d died. No one had seen him since before Arya was hurt. She mourned him, but he lived. He was back at the exact moment she needed him. The returning dragon was very visibly injured, one wing was noticeably less powerful than the other and Daenerys could see bloodstains both old and new. She had many questions, but they’d need to wait. 

All around those she loved were on the brink of death. Jon still hadn’t managed to get back to his feet, Jorah was dead, and Jaime and Brienne were spending more time retreating than attacking. Further away, Unsullied were dying and soldiers from all of their allied kingdoms were being overrun by Wights and White Walkers. Only she could stop it. 

A steady stream of fire from his mouth kept the Night King’s attention. It allowed Daenerys to approach in peace. She thought back to what she’d seen Arya do and tried to mimic her actions. She hunched down, raised her sword up and crept closer. She was sure she was doing it incorrectly as she prepared the blade but hoped the Gods would favor her anyway. She did to the Night King what one of his White Walkers had done to her oldest friend, what Jaime Lannister had done to her father. She stabbed him in the back while his focus was elsewhere. He staggered forward, his arm lowering, exposing himself to Rhaegal’s flame. Unconcerned about Rhaegal’s breath, she stood in the center of the fire with her enemy. He remained on his feet for a few seconds more then slumped. She mounted him like a Khal would and raised the sword high above her head. She brought it down hard, not just for her, but for everyone who’d fought, died or lost someone in this war. The Valyrian steel was just as sharp and powerful as promised. Even as his head rolled away from his body it didn’t seem real. 

Only the cheers from the survivors provided confirmation. Afraid he might somehow fix himself she took the Night King’s head and carried it with her. She ordered Rhaegal to finish burning the rest of him. 

As the flames ate his flesh she looked to Drogon. Her largest dragon was on the ground, tending to his wounds while Viserion lie dead, his mouth open and positioned around Drogon’s neck as though he’d been only moments away from clamping down. She shuddered at the thought. 

Any relief she felt vanished when Rhaegal fell. His wing no longer supporting him he collided with the snow hard. By the time she reached him, his big eyes were already beginning to close. She stayed with him for a long time, hoping he might return to her again but he never did. Finally, it was Jon who pulled her away, straight into a hug. “I’m sorry Dany,” he said. 

It was just one more thing, one more person she couldn’t save. As if the list wasn’t long enough already. “Let’s go,” she said. She wanted to see Arya and tell her the war was won, even if she was still sleeping. 

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Sorry to the people who wanted Arya in the final battle with the Night King. After all she’d been through, I wanted her fight to be a little more personal in nature. I hope it wasn’t too disappointing. 
> 
> Thanks  
> RC


	19. Chapter 19

Governing in peace time, if she could call it that, wasn’t any easier than preparing for the war with mythical creatures. Destroying she learned required less effort than rebuilding, demanding quicker than seeking consensus. A large majority of her time was spent in the company of men and women who couldn’t agree on the color of the sky. 

She wanted to be with Arya, to help her, being a Queen kept them apart. Daenerys didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Perhaps what Arya needed was space to come to terms with everything that had happened. For a woman of action, the way Arya undoubtedly was, it had to be difficult to learn wars were fought while she stayed behind, that people she loved died so she could live and worst of all, that there was nothing she could do to change any of it. 

With Daenerys was busy, Arya divided her time between the Weirwood Tree and the crypt. When she was available, sometimes Daenerys accompanied her, sometimes not. Arya rarely said anything, regardless, keeping her thoughts to herself, even as Daenerys prodded impatiently for her to speak. However they spent their days, when night came Arya always managed to find her way to Daenerys’s chambers. They’d enjoy hours together, in blissful peace before the sun rose and the chaos began anew. It was a ritual that Daenerys was thrilled to be a part of. 

R-C

She wasn’t a good person. She knew that. She lied and killed as naturally as most sucked in air. After countless strikes from Jaqen, the Waif, the Kindly Man and others she’d gotten so good she could almost lie to herself. Almost. There was one truth that couldn’t be denied. She missed Bran. 

She remembered thinking once that they were in a war, and in war people died. There was no avoiding that. She was prepared for it, or thought she was. She didn’t fear death, she even acknowledged the possibility that someone she loved might die before she could reach them, but she never considered losing him. Her all-seeing brother was safe, away from the fighting in Winterfell, protected by guards and knights. He wasn’t in danger, nor a threat, he couldn’t even stand. Short of a situation where the Night King claimed the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, she thought he’d be okay. If they all fell, he would too, but as long as they won, no matter who else was lost, Bran would be there to help in the aftermath. She believed that, and she’d been wrong. 

When those around her dared to speak of him, they made blanket claims without merit, saying things like, “It’ll get easier,” or “Bran’s in a better place.” As selfish as it was, she didn’t care where Bran was or how great his destination, she wanted him with her. She also questioned the sanity of those who told her things would get better. Her brother was dead, he gave his life for her. That, would never be easy, it would always just be. In fact, if she had to put a name to it, she’d say her feelings on the subject were growing worse. 

Jon was smart enough to give her some time. He was the one who made the final decision, he swung the sword and he killed Bran. She knew she shouldn’t blame him, but she did. He could have said no. He could have killed her instead. He didn’t. 

She tried harder with Sansa. Her sister was visibly hurting, and Arya didn’t want to add to it. Their pain brought them together, even as they both actively avoided talking about Bran. In the earliest days after the war, each morning when she first encountered Sansa the older Stark seemed genuinely surprised Arya was there. As if she expected her to disappear during the night, in secret. It was a fair assumption, one she more than deserved. After that, she made an effort, finding her on the way to or from the crypt, just to confirm she was still present. She didn’t know if this brought Sansa any comfort, but she hoped so. 

Daenerys was at a loss. It was obvious she wanted to help. It showed in every expression, every word or deed, but she didn’t know how. It wasn’t her fault. The Wolf didn’t know what she needed either. Arya tried to assure her lover she was fine but failed at that as incredibly as she failed at most things. More than once she thought about telling Daenerys what she’d seen, what she’d lived while she was unconscious. She recalled vividly her encounters with her dead family including Bran. When she was kneeling in front of his monument in the crypt, begging for forgiveness, his words echoed in her head. 

She wanted to keep her promise, to honor what turned out to be his dying wish, but she didn’t know if she was capable. How could she forgive herself after everything she’d done? Her parents were dead, two of her brothers were dead, no… three of her brothers were dead now. Jon intended to leave his family and go to the Wall, so she could take his place and she was supposed to act like it was fine? 

Even more troubling than what she experienced was what it meant. Bran had said everything was a manifestation of her fears. If they existed before the Night King’s spear nearly killed her, they did so in the back of her mind, in the deepest recesses of her. Since waking, they lived in the forefront. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing her father’s embarrassment, her mother’s anger, Robb’s disgust or Rickon’s disappointment. Real or imagined, those fears owned her now. 

In one singular way Daenerys was a lighthouse in the storm. At night, after being plagued by waking nightmares all day, she’d go to her Dragon in search of a brief reprieve. For a few hours she’d think of nothing but Daenerys. The taste of her lips, the feel of her skin, the steady beat of her heart, the heat of her blood. It was perfection. Each time she fell asleep completely exhausted afterward, she allowed herself to hope the next day would be different. 

R-C

She hadn’t touched a sword since riding out of Winterfell intent on finding the Night King. On that day she hadn’t had any problem gathering her weapons, putting on borrowed armor and promising Sansa she’d be as careful as she could be. Daenerys needed her. She didn’t get far before Drogon returned, carrying those who mattered most to her. She fought her stallion’s instinct for self-preservation and forced him to go straight toward the dragon. She was quicker dismounting that Daenerys was and ran straight for her. She was alive! For a moment, holding her in front of too many witnesses her heart seemed to mend itself. For a few seconds she thought they’d be okay. 

R-C

So much had changed recently that Daenerys was having trouble keeping up. Her stomach was bulging with her son, her feet ached near all the time and she had the strangest desires for odd combinations of food. Between, Arya, Jon, Tyrion and Missandei, her cravings never went unattended. 

With the Night King dead, people slowly began to relax and rebuild. The Wall had a hole, the Night’s Watch had been decimated and countless villages and towns between the Wall and Winterfell had been wiped from the map. 

Celebrations were commonplace, few needing much of a reason to pour drinks and cheer. Even the Lords who were most opposed to her presence in the North found it easier to tolerate her after the war was over. She knew peace was far from assured. Her armies had been weakened, suffering significant losses. They defeated the Undead, but still had enemies among the living. Cersei Lannister wasn’t going to accept things as they were without complaint. That said, she didn’t dwell on it much. It was a problem for another day. 

She mourned, for Bran, for Jorah, and so many more but as Jon promised the day he laid his brother to rest, they would be honored and remembered. 

In the aftermath of the battle new life was also created. Rhaegal and Viserion were killed. Like she’d wanted to after Viserion first ’died,’ she used Drogon to return them to the fire. She hadn’t been the least bit prepared to find, when the smoke cleared four dragon eggs, no larger than a chicken’s in the ashes. She’d never given much thought to how dragons reproduce. It didn’t seem important with all the more pressing concerns. Had she had years to dedicate to study she never would have predicted dragon eggs came from dragon corpses, hidden away until they were razed. She hadn’t told anyone yet, including Arya, but she planned to name the new dragons after those who were killed, Bran, Theon, Davos and Jorah. 

The largest difference was Arya. She’d been on a horse riding toward combat when Drogon returned them. In the time it took for her to climb down from Drogon’s back, Arya found her. With the Night King’s head in her hand, she was nearly knocked to the ground by the force of a body colliding with hers. “Arya, you’re awake?” she said, dropping the trophy of her victory and clutching her tight. 

“And you’re alive,” she replied. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“You’re not nearly that lucky,” Daenerys joked, her words choking her as she wrestled emotions stronger than any White Walker.

R-C

Daenerys had asked her multiple times, always gently, what Bran made her promise the last time they spoke. Arya never answered. Was it right to add more weight to shoulders that carried so much already? Daenerys was burdened with the lives of millions. Arya’s conflict was minor in comparison. 

Lying awake after hours spent lost in Daenerys, she said the words she’d been trying to keep private since she woke. She kept them from Jon, from Sansa, and Daenerys, until now. “He made me promise to forgive myself,” she said as her lover teetered on the brink of sleep. “Bran, he said it wasn’t my choice and not my fault.”

“Do you believe him?” she asked in the darkness. 

As if she needed another reason to love Daenerys. Any other woman, any other person she knew would have taken the opportunity to tell her Bran was right. They would have reinforced his message and tried to rid Arya of the pain but not Daenerys. Daenerys understood. She turned it back on her, a simple question that had no easy answer. “I want to, for him, but I’m not sure.”

A soft hand rubbed her shoulder and then moved down toward her chest. “You don’t have to decide now,” she said softly. “It takes time.”

She wanted to reject the premise that anyone understood what she was feeling but she knew if it was possible someone did, it would be Daenerys. She gave her son to try and save her husband. Arya heard rumors about the bargain in Essos, the witch who tried to defy the Dragon, but she never gave it its due. She didn’t realize just how hard that choice must have been for her. The way it was for Jon to choose between a brother and sister he loved. “He shouldn’t have done it,” Arya proclaimed, her anger building at the lack of say she had. “None of you should have done it. Not Jon, not Bran, not you or the Priestess.”

“We made a choice. One we could all live with,” she answered. 

“Or die with,” Arya amended bluntly. Not everyone got to live. Only her. 

She lifted onto an elbow and looked down at Arya. “The choice was mine, not yours,” she said, her certainty wavering slightly. “I could have stopped it. I could have refused to kill Melisandre. If you need someone to blame, you don’t need to look far Arya, it’s me.” Her voice broke on the final word. 

She wanted to be angry. She was good at that. She wanted to shift the blame off of her and onto someone else. Right or wrong, maybe then it would be easier to breathe. Tears shined in violet eyes, even in the dark it couldn’t be missed. Her face contorted in a blend of regret and relief. Hearing Daenerys’s confession, seeing her pain, knowing she was doing her best to hold herself together for Arya, it shattered her. “I don’t want someone to blame. I just want… my brother back!”

By the time the first tears fell Daenerys had already wrapped her up and pulled her tight against her body. She stayed there, crying like a child. As she revealed her pathetic weakness to the most powerful woman in the known world, she was met with only soft kisses and gentle stroking of her hair. Unlike the others, Daenerys didn’t tell her it was going to be okay, didn’t tell her Bran would want one thing or another for her, she only said. “I’m here.” For Arya, that was enough. 

R-C

The first she heard of an annulment was a little more than two weeks after the Night King’s death. Jon found her alone in her chambers one evening. He entered quietly and closed the door behind him. She offered a drink, but he refused, his face severe. “When I’m gone, I want you to annul our marriage.”

When he was gone? Where did he intend to go? “Our marriage…”

“Our marriage was necessary at the time we agreed to it, but things are different now.” 

Daenerys wasn’t sure what to make of this. She’d spent every night since Arya woke with her lover and she thought Jon understood and accepted their relationship. “If this is about Arya…” she started. 

“It’s not,” he assured her. “It’s about me.”

“What about you?” she asked, feeling as though she was missing a vital piece of information. 

He sighed and pushed a hand through his rapidly growing hair. “I intend to tell the Lords loyal to me who I really am.”

“Why would you do that?” she asked, harder than she meant to. “Bran made it clear the Lords wouldn’t follow you if they knew.”

“I don’t want to rule the North,” he said flatly. “I never did. It was an obligation, a responsibility. I needed allies to fight the Night King and being King in the North provided them. I don’t belong in Winterfell anymore today than I did as a boy.” 

She didn’t need to love Jon to want good things for him. “That’s not true. Your people respect you, you’re a good King.”

“I can’t live a lie,” he said his face showing traces of his discomfort. “I won’t. I’ll tell them who I am and accept the consequences.”

She wanted to believe that the Lords would be reasonable, that they’d see the logic behind Jon’s decision to hide the truth, but she had her doubts. “They might…”

He didn’t let her finish. “Yes,” he allowed, smiling slightly, “they might.”

Her instincts were screaming that this was wrong, that she owed it to Jon to find some way to change his mind. “If you don’t wish to remain in Winterfell, you could join me in the South. You’ll always have a place at Dragonstone.”

He shook his head but looked touched by the offer nonetheless. “I belong in the South even less than I do Winterfell.” 

“Where will you go then?” she wondered, feeling empathy for the man who had given her so much and asked little from her in return. 

“North,” he answered immediately, smiling again. “My place is on the Wall, it always has been.”

“The Wall? The Wall has a hole, the Night’s Watch is no more.”

“I’ll rebuild them, the both of them.”

She looked down at her stomach. Everyday she noticed more and more of the pregnancy, whether it be in her sluggish movement, unfitting clothes or aching bones. “The baby.” 

He smiled and looked at her growing stomach. “I’ll return before the baby is born. If you’re in Dragonstone, I’ll visit, if you’re in Winterfell, I’ll visit.”

“You’re going to be his father,” she said forcefully. She didn’t want to take that away from him and Daenerys knew Arya didn’t either. 

“I will be,” he agreed, “I couldn’t change it if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. I’ll visit, I’ll send letters and gifts. When the Wall is repaired and he’s a little bit older, you can bring him to see it.” 

“Does Arya know about this?” She couldn’t imagine her lover was okay with Jon’s plans. 

“She does, and she’s even less thrilled than you,” he admitted quietly. 

“Perhaps you should listen to us. Women are the smarter of the sexes.” 

He laughed lightly but sincerely. “I have no doubt of that.” 

“If you’re doing this for Arya, or for me, you don’t need to. We’ll figure out another way.” 

Jon tried to clarify his position. “It isn’t the least bit difficult for me to see you with Arya. I like it. It has been a long time since I’ve seen her so happy.” He looked at his wife in silence for a moment. “You deserve it too. You’ve both been through a lot.”

“No more than you,” she protested.

“This is what I want. I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.”

“Are you certain?” she verified. “The baby, our son…” 

“I will be in my son’s life, our son’s life,” he vowed. “I will watch him grow, teach him, help to make him the man we both want him to be. A man who can succeed at anything he attempts, a man who is kind, decent and fair, a man worthy of his position as a King. I don’t need to be your husband to accomplish this.”

If anyone asked, she’d blame her pregnancy for her inability to hold back her tears. “I hope our son grows up to be a lot like his father.”

Jon smiled warmly and opened his arms. She went to him. “And I hope he’s a lot like his mother.” Whatever else he was, Jon was her child’s father and she’d always care about him. 

R-C

Three days after a night spent crying in Daenerys’s arms, Arya tried to join the men in the yard. The Master at Arms was doing what he could with limited recruits to replenish the Winterfell garrison. It was a worthy cause and normally Arya would have been eager to take part. 

Although they hadn’t spoken about it, not once, she did feel better now that Daenerys knew a little bit about what she’d endured. It was disgusting to feel relief at passing along pain meant for her alone, especially to one as good and decent as Daenerys, but she did it, and the improvement was real. It shouldn’t be surprising. She’d been a wretched thing for a long time. 

As if there weren’t enough rumors whispered about her, everyone now knew that Arya Stark jumped from a dragon and onto a White Walker. Yara unhelpfully told anyone who would listen that she’d have died without Arya’s aid and even Jon, her noble King, told his soldiers that Arya had nearly bested the Night King single-handed. It’s why the training stopped when she appeared. “Continue!” she ordered, not enjoying the eyes on her. 

The unease began as she made her way toward the rack of weapons. Swords, a mace, knives, daggers and even a club were all available to her. As she reached for one Bran appeared in her mind. What would he think of this? He’d given her a second chance and she was going to waste it killing others. Was that honoring Bran’s sacrifice? The thought of picking up a sword and shaming him while doing so turned her stomach. Her feet took her away and she made it to the hidden safety between two buildings before she hunched over and emptied the contents of her stomach into the snow. 

 

Since leaving King’s Landing as a girl, violence had always brought her a peace. She had faith in her abilities when she was killing, when she was hunting. Against an enemy she could slay with her sword, she knew the rules and the dangers, she accepted them. Then, the worst outcome was death. Now, she wasn’t so sure that was true. Jaqen once told her, “Only death can pay for life.” He was right. She was alive at the expense of Bran. She’d have years now, to become old, watch Daenerys’s son grow, to laugh with Sansa and Jon. Her despicable future was bought with his pure, good one. It was wrong. 

Now she couldn’t look at a sword, or any weapon for that matter without seeing how Bran must have appeared dead. A wound to his neck, blood streaking down his chest, covering the fur her wore as a blanket over his legs. 

For years, training was her refuge. She committed herself to becoming No One so she could rid the world of every name on her list. Finishing what she’d started now, with Bran gone, felt like a disservice to his memory. Would he want her to be the same or to do better? She wouldn’t have asked him to die for her. She wouldn’t have allowed it, if she’d known but she hadn’t. He offered up his life, and she was left to make the most of it. Was a killer, an assassin the best she could be? Was that how she brought light to the world or was that just another lie she told herself? 

R-C

Later that night, not even Daenerys’s body was enough to hold her focus and the Queen noticed. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked while a feather light finger grazed her spine. 

“What?” she pretended, fully aware playing dumb wouldn’t work with Daenerys. 

She could imagine Daenerys’s adorable frown without looking back. “Whatever is on your mind.” 

What was on her mind? She was thinking about her time spent recovering. She remembered Olenna. The kind old woman who helped her fulfill her truest desire and murder Joffrey and then urged her to die by offering her the same poison. She thought about being unable to even practice today, growing ill at the prospect of picking up a blade. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked her lover. 

Typically, understanding and gentle, this reply was fierce and immediate. “Nothing!”

She rolled over, feeling brave enough to look her in the face for this conversation. “I kill people Daenerys, that’s what I do. I murder them. Because of me, mothers bury sons, wives bury husbands, children grow up without fathers. A good man, one of the best I know gave his life for me. I didn’t like Melisandre very much, but she died too so I could be saved.” 

Not understanding what Arya was really getting at. Daenerys repeated her ascertain from the last time. “That isn’t your fault Arya. It wasn’t your choice to make, it was mine.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean what was it for?”

“What are you asking?” she wondered, confused. 

“I mean I got to come back from the dead. I get to live again but why? Why me? Melisandre brought Jon back because of her prophecy, because he was needed to rally the North and defeat the Dead. Why did you bring me back? Thousands died in that battle? What makes me more deserving than them?” 

“I love you,” Daenerys pledged as if it were just that simple. “That’s why we did it, that’s why I’d do it again a thousand times. I know you’re hurting, I know you blame yourself but…”

She didn’t know, not really. She didn’t know because Arya hadn’t told her. She reached out and pressed a finger to Daenerys’s lips. “I wasn’t asleep the whole time.”

“What?” she mumbled, talking against the finger. 

She caught herself smiling at just how cute Daenerys could be without trying. “I wasn’t asleep the whole time. I was…”

Now that she broached the subject, it seemed Daenerys was anxious to get going. “You had visitors in the dungeon,” she reminded her. “Sansa, Bran, me.”

“I remember,” she promised. “After that, before I woke up, I had these visions or something. I’m not sure exactly.”

She paused to gather her thoughts, to find a way to explain it that didn’t sound crazy, and Daenerys jumped in. “You did? You never mentioned it.”

No, she hadn’t. She hadn’t told anyone. If Bran was right and those visions were her fears, she thought they belonged to her. She came from a world where fears were used as weapons just as frequently as swords. A weakness could be exploited by an ally or an enemy to gain the upper hand. Allegiances shift, motives change, commitments vary. Sharing what she saw and why it hurt her so deeply would expose her vulnerable parts for attack. It went against everything she had been taught and everything she learned through painful trials. For Daenerys she would, with Daenerys she was safe. 

“I had these visits from people who died, my parents, my brothers, Lady Olenna,” she said, hoping that would give some context to what followed. Her willingness to share wavered briefly and she needed to swallow hard. “Bran was there too. I didn’t know why at the time.” 

“Did he speak to you?” she asked, unknowingly posing exactly the right question. 

“I saw him at the end. After all the others. I was going to kill myself, Olenna had poison, the same poison she used to murder Joffrey.”

“Why would Olenna do that?” Daenerys yelled harshly. “She was kind and you said the two of you were friends.” 

She put a hand on Daenerys’s shoulder in hopes of quelling her fury. “Bran said it wasn’t real, he said they were just reflections of my fears.”

“So, it wasn’t Olenna?” she summarized. 

Arya shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Bran sounded pretty confident.”

Daenerys gave her a smile. “He did know more than any of us.”

“Yes, he did, even then.” She steeled herself for what she needed to say next. “I saw my father, under the tree where we met,” she started. 

R-C

Daenerys was riveted, listening to Arya speak about the visions she had while she was asleep. Her heart broke as she heard Ned Stark’s harsh opinion of the lives his daughter had taken. Real or imagined, Daenerys was offended on Arya’s behalf. She knew Arya better than most and that afforded her the opportunity to learn just how heavy the weight of all those lives was on her. She knew that many of Arya’s skewed views of herself were born of the dichotomy between the things she’d done, and the morals instilled in her by her father. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it was for her to face him and hear him say those things. 

When Arya told of speaking to her mother and how she was trying to force her into a wedding, Daenerys had to resist the instinct to smile. It amused her to know that even in a vision, or a dream, or unconscious under the influence of the Night King that Arya was still Arya. She was still defiant and determined. The challenge came in picturing the strong, independent woman she loved as the fragile, young woman being described. Having lacked a mother, she didn’t have any memories of her own for comparison. Her only window into that part of Arya’s life was the long conversation she’d had with Sansa in the dungeon. Then the elder Stark told her many tales of her childhood with Arya, each one more entertaining than the last.

Hearing about Robb’s cold unwillingness to let Arya meet his family and the reasons behind it had Daenerys wishing she could meet the man and slap him. How dare he!? Not even Bran’s claim that it wasn’t really Robb was enough to dull her anger. Arya tortured herself over their relationship, leaving home and blaming herself for everything that went wrong between her and Jon. It wasn’t accurate, and it wasn’t fair. It upset her to know that Arya’s mind used that as a tool to manipulate her toward suicide. 

The details she provided telling Rickon’s death were some of the hardest to stay silent through. With tears falling freely Arya described her brother’s final moments and his message, reminding Arya of her failure to watch over him. It was cruel. 

After Rickon she took them back to the start. “After that, I was with Olenna in Highgarden.”

Aware of how vile the visions were, Daenerys was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”

Arya’s pain, etched so deeply across her scarred face made Daenerys wish she could take the question back. “She told me I failed them, that I’d always fail, just like I did with the Night King.”

“You didn’t fail!” Daenerys resisted. Arya had done more to injure him that anyone else. If she hadn’t done such damage, Jon would never have been able to take his hand. If he had both hands he would have been able to fend off Rhaegal and Daenerys at the same time. The only reason they succeeded at all, was Arya. 

Her lover was too lost in her thoughts. “She gave me the poison and promised me peace if I drank it. Said I’d never fail again.” Her lip quivered in a way Daenerys hadn’t seen it do before. “I was going to do it.”

With the additional information, what she said before made a lot more sense. “Bran.” It seemed she owed the Stark even more than she realized. He’d not saved Arya only once but twice. Once in this world and once in another. She would have liked to think that Arya, the woman she loved, would never want to kill herself, to leave her that way, but knowing how vicious and unrelenting the visions were, she could understand how they would pile up, pressing on the weakest points in her. 

“If he died five minutes later, I don’t think I’d be here,” she admitted in a calm way that chilled Daenerys to the core. “He showed up, told me not to believe it and took the poison.”

In her mind she made a promise to pray directly to Bran after Arya was asleep. She had to thank him and make him a promise of her own. He needed to know, wherever he was, that Arya would be okay. Daenerys would see to it regardless of how long it took. 

“I couldn’t even pick up a sword today,” Arya said, pulling Daenerys from her thoughts of Bran. The younger woman looked filled to the brim with shame. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“He died for me,” she said looking down at her hands. “Shouldn’t I at least try to be better for him?”

She put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up, so they could see one another. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you Arya,” she swore, taking them back to the beginning. 

She chuckled lightly and gave Daenerys a sad smile. “Bran said the same thing.” 

“He’s a smart man, you should listen to him.” There were some things she was willing to let Arya go through at her own speed. Others demanded intervention. She wouldn’t allow Arya to believe for one second that she was unworthy of what Bran and Melisandre had done.

It was quiet for a long time before Arya whispered, “Bran thinks you’d love me if I never pick up a sword again.”

She couldn’t resist, Daenerys leaned down and kissed her lover’s lips. “As I said, your brother is a smart man.”

“Would you really?” she pressed. “I wouldn’t be me then, the old me anyway. I wouldn’t be the woman you fell in love with.” 

Daenerys had never desired Missandei’s gift for tongues more. She wished she knew nineteen languages like her friend, so she could tell Arya in every one of them that she didn’t give a fuck if Arya was the same or different, she just wanted to be with her. “I’m going to love you forever. I love you. There is not an old Arya or a new one, there is just Arya.” She wiped a fresh tear off the scar with her thumb. “If you want to honor Bran by doing something different, I’ll support you every step of the way, but if the Arya I get to spend the rest of my life with is the same one I met under the Weirwood Tree, I’ll be the luckiest woman in the world.”

R-C

He knew from the moment he saw Arya awake, that this conversation was destined to happen. Since then, he gave both Daenerys and Arya their space, preparing for his upcoming journey. 

She knocked and stuck her head in. Her expression reminded him of when she was a girl, at times when she almost wished to find the room empty. He knew then whatever she wanted to discuss wasn’t going to be pleasant. 

He invited her in and poured the drinks while she collected her thoughts. “You should have let me die,” she said seriously before he returned to his seat. 

“I couldn’t do nothing Arya,” he said to justify the unforgiveable. He’d made a terrible choice, but it was his and his alone. 

“Bran,” her voice broke on their dead brother’s name and she swallowed hard to try and remain composed. 

“I know,” he said, going to her. He didn’t care about his chair, or his drink or anything else. Only her. With strong arms he pulled her up and they hugged. “I know,” he said again, speaking into her hair. “It’s what he wanted.”

“He didn’t want to die,” Arya disagreed. “He didn’t need to. You should have killed me.”

“Bran had a message he wanted me to give you,” Jon said. He’d been trying to decide the right time to tell her, and it never seemed appropriate. “He wanted me to remind you to remember your promise.”

She chuckled humorlessly. “Of course, he did.”

He leaned back slightly so he could look down at her face. “What promise?”

She shook her head and he didn’t think he was going to get an answer. “He saw me in the dungeon, made me promise to forgive myself.” She pressed her head to him again. “I didn’t know what he was talking about,” she admitted. “I thought you were going to kill me, I didn’t know. He said what was going to happen wasn’t my choice and because of that it wasn’t my fault.”

Hearing her admission nearly broke him. Now it was his turn to confess. “I nearly did. From the moment you were hurt Daenerys believed we could save you, she refused to accept there was no other way.”

“I asked her to kill me,” Arya remembered. 

“I know.” Daenerys had told him that. “I was going to do it, so she didn’t have to. I was just trying to postpone it for as long as I could. I wanted to say goodbye first.”

They finally ended their hug, and each sat down. Arya emptied her glass almost immediately. “What changed?”

“Bran and Melisandre told me about a book Sam received with information about the White Walkers and the Long Night. It was how we learned how to help you.”

At the mention of the Priestess Arya’s expression hardened. “I always thought she hated me.”

Jon knew her better than most and he still was at a loss for Melisandre’s motivations. “Whatever she did in life, she died a good death, an honorable death. She brought you back to me.”

“Bran sent me back. While I was asleep or unconscious or whatever I was, I saw them, our family, all of them, mother, father, Robb and Rickon, even Olenna.” 

“What happened?” he asked. He really should learn to stop being surprised by the incredible things that were possible. He knew that even the strangest of things could be true, still, he hadn’t been anticipating that. 

She shook her head. Clearly unwilling to tell him. It only made him wonder more. “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t going to come back, until he told me to.”

Even without all the details he knew one thing for certain. “Bran is a hero.”

Arya was rarely emotional, but he could see every ounce of her pain now. “He told me to be who I am, to not hide from it.”

“He wasn’t wrong.”

Arya took a look around the room and Jon did too. When she saw his partially packed bag, her eyes snapped back to him. “You’re really going?” she asked, changing the topic. 

“It’s where I belong.” He didn’t know how else to explain it. Everyone who meant anything to him knew what he intended. They all had tried to change his mind, to assure him leaving wasn’t necessary but his decision was made. He belonged on the Wall. Repairs were required, and the Night’s Watch needed to be built up again. When it didn’t look like Arya intended to let the subject go, he tried another way. “I’ll be back.” This was true. He was going to have a son and his obligation to the Night’s Watch aside, he couldn’t just forget that. If he was going to do what was best, for the Realm and his family, he needed to be both a Lord Commander and a father and brother. “I’ve already decided I’ll come back before the baby is born. I’ll get to see my son grow. This won’t be like last time, I promise.” 

“I feel like I’m taking your life. You’re Daenerys’s husband, you’re the baby’s father, not me.” 

Jon knew she felt that way and he’d tried to reassure her he wasn’t angry. It hadn’t worked, and he finally realized it would take time. Only with time would Arya see he didn’t hold her any ill-will. Only with time could she come to believe he would be a part of his son’s life and hers, even from a distance. Luckily now with the Dead gone, time was something there was no shortage of. “You’re not. I was merely borrowing yours.”

“I don’t want you to go,” she said. “You don’t have to, not for me.” 

He gave her a smile. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for me.” 

“Yeah,” she said sarcastically, “because I stole your wife.”

Jon couldn’t help by smile. Still the same Arya. Still too stubborn for her own good. “I’m not leaving because of Daenerys, or because of you,” he said echoing something he’d told her the first time they discussed it. “I’m making the best choice I can for myself and my family, just like Bran did, just like Daenerys is doing. Take Bran’s advice, not everything is your fault.”

To his delight she seemed to hear the truth in his words, or at the very least, she decided it wasn’t worth fighting over any longer. They talked well into the night, finishing off that bottle and opening another. The conversation was light and easy. They spoke about events from long ago and reminisced about all the people they’d lost along the way. Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so freely, or so intently. 

R-C

Sansa knew what he meant to do when he summoned all those loyal to him into the same room. She arrived before he did and met him at the door. “You don’t need to do this,” she said, meaning it. Jon was a worthy King and the North was lucky to have him. They’d be privileged to live under his rule for as long as they could. 

He gave her a smile that she noticed was untroubled and leaned to place a kiss on her cheek. “It’s going to be fine,” he pledged. “Thank you all for coming,” he said looking out over the gathered men and women. “I’ll keep this brief.” He took a deep breath, met her eye and smiled again. “The Dead are defeated, and I can no longer be your King.”

Not surprisingly Glover was the first to voice his opinion. “What?! You don’t mean…”

Jon held up his hand. “You chose me to lead because I was Ned Stark’s son. You were willing to overlook the fact that I was a bastard who never knew his mother, because I had come from Eddard Stark, a man we all loved and respected. I had experience against the White Walkers that made me valuable then. At the time I believed as you did, but in the time since I learned that my birth was not the product of an indiscretion with a whore but rather a forbidden union between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

Jon wisely paused and gave the Lords time to absorb the new information. “Targaryen, that’s impossible.”

“It is not,” Jon corrected. “My mother died shortly after my birth. Lord Stark found us there and honored his sister’s dying wish that I be protected. He brought me to Winterfell, raised me, cared for me and loved me like a son, taking his sister’s secret to his grave.”

“You lied to us!” Mazin shouted. “You wed the Targaryen, your aunt and lied!”

“I did,” he admitted. “I’m willing to accept any punishment the men and women in this room deem appropriate for my crimes but know that what I did, I did because we were at war. We needed to be united against the Night King and his army and we wouldn’t have been if you knew the truth.” 

The discontent had her worried. She hadn’t known Jon planned to throw himself at the mercy of the room like that. She decided she wouldn’t let them harm him, no matter what it cost her. He’d saved her once. Now it was time to return the favor. “Jon’s right,” Lyanna Mormont declared. “We can hardly discuss the sharing of grains and livestock without fighting like children. The truth would have cost us the war.”

Sansa smiled at the younger woman and noticed Jon giving her a nod of appreciation for her words. “He’s still wronged us,” Mazin said, not ready to lay down. 

“Then sentence me to the Wall,” Jon suggested. 

“The Wall? The Night’s Watch fell to the Dead, they’re no more.”

“I will rebuild them,” Jon announced. “With or without your blessing I intend to return to my post on the Wall and set things right.”

“You won’t move South with your wife?”

Jon and Sansa shared a loaded look. She gave him a smile she hoped was encouraging. “Like my lie, my marriage to Daenerys was only meant to help us secure the North and protect it from our enemies.”

“More lies! A fake marriage for a fake King.”

“Did you ever love her?”

“Who’s the father of her baby?” another voice shouted. 

For the first time Jon showed a bit of anger. “The marriage was real. Our child is real. I married Daenerys, most of you were there to see it. As for my feelings, I can’t imagine what concern they are to any of you.”

“The boy’s right,” Glover relented. “We wouldn’t have won the war without him and the Targaryen armies. I say if he wants to return to the Wall, we let him. I’d sleep a lot better at night if I knew Castle Black was full again.” 

When she heard the murmurs of agreement she knew they’d won. “Fine,” Mazin allowed, “but we still need a King.” Suddenly every eye was searching the room for who among them might be worthy of the title. 

“M’lords,” Jon said, taking their attention back, “from a time since long before any of us lived Starks have always ruled the North. It should remain so. Just because I’m not an appropriate choice doesn’t mean others aren’t. You trusted Sansa when I was in the South, you’d be wise to trust her now.” 

She hadn’t known he intended to offer himself up as a criminal to win their favor, and she also hadn’t known he planned to propose she be the next ruler. In truth she hadn’t given it much thought. Now that she was, she expected battles would be needed before one house seized power. Being Queen was always what she wanted, she just never imagined it’d be in Winterfell. 

“Stark King, Stark Queen, I don’t care, I’ll follow her.” 

“Me too.” 

Suddenly she was the focus. Jon went to her and in a dramatic show, completely unnecessarily bent the knee. “My Queen.”

R-C

“I’m fat,” she complained to her lover as they walked through the halls of Winterfell. Daenerys was in a foul mood. Arya had invited her on another picnic, like the one they’d gone on months earlier. Daenerys eagerly accepted and was feeling rather excited about the coming day until they reached the stable and found she was too big to mount her horse without help. It was a mercy that the Dothraki hadn’t been there to see it, they would stop calling her Khaleesi, if they knew. What kind of Khaleesi can’t even fit in the saddle? It was embarrassing. 

“You’re not fat, you’re pregnant and I said I’d help you. I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about.” 

She looked at the other woman, the healthy, fit, thin woman. “Of course, you don’t. You’re perfect. I needed Missandei’s help to get my shoes on this morning!” 

Her laugh, did nothing to make things better, although she did try to cover it with a cough, unsuccessfully. “I’m far from perfect and don’t worry, I’ll help you with whatever you need.” 

Was she being difficult on purpose? “That’s not the point!” Daenerys exclaimed. “We’re leaving soon. How am I supposed to make it back to Dragonstone if I can’t even climb on my horse?”

“I’ll carry you,” she offered unhelpfully. 

This time Daenerys was almost certain she was trying to get a reaction. If she was a danger to the stallion, what hope would Arya have. “Don’t you dare, I’ll break your back.” 

The argument was still going on several minutes later when Tyrion cleared his throat to both announce himself and quiet the bickering. The Hand looked tense. He’d been much more relaxed of late now that the war was over. She was immediately nervous. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem with our plans to return home?” 

Tyrion looked from Daenerys to Arya and then back to the Targaryen. “We can’t go home.” 

“What? Why not?” she asked, her frustration bubbling over. If this was about him wanting to remain with Sansa, she was going to lock him up in the dungeon Arya no longer needed. 

He spared Arya another glance, before the response came. “Varys is dead,” he stated. “Cersei attacked Dragonstone, she took the castle.” 

That was impossible. The Iron Fleet had secured the waters surrounding King’s Landing. How could she have gotten to Dragonstone? Arya obviously had the same thoughts. “That can’t be right,” she said. 

“I’m afraid it is,” he verified holding out the scroll that was clearly smeared with blood. “The letter is written in Cersei’s own hand.”

“That could be anybody’s blood,” Arya noted. 

Tyrion took his eyes off the Wolf and gave Daenerys a pitifully look that told her all she needed to know. “The letter was accompanied by Varys’s head.”

Daenerys had had a hard time controlling her emotions of late. Sam insisted it was because of the baby, but whatever the reason she felt tears she didn’t authorize burning in her eyes. Varys was dead? The home where she planned to raise her son was in the hands of her enemy? It took longer than usual for her to remember the scroll. She unwound the page and read the neatly arranged words. 

Lady Targaryen,

Thank you for your lovely home. The vermin who had been residing inside have been exterminated. If you wish to gather your things you can have your fleet retrieve them from the nearby waters. 

You’ll be hearing from me soon. 

Until then,

Cersei Lannister the I  
Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

R-C

She woke before the sun and untangled herself from the net of Daenerys’s arms. It was tempting to consider staying, to linger there for as long as she could, but she had business to attend to. The night before she’d overheard a whispered conversation, not meant for her ears. She learned he intended to leave and she was determined to stop him. 

She dressed quickly, making use of long years spent in shadows and darkness. She grabbed her fur lined coat off the hook and threw it over her arm instead of wrapping it around her body. “I’ll be back before you can miss me,” she whispered, kissing Daenerys on the sleeping lips while her free hand caressed the baby. 

She found him less than ten miles away. She could have exposed herself, but she had another idea in mind to get her way. She took her horse in a long, loop around his position, making sure not to be seen and then she waited at a particularly narrow spot, knowing he’d have to try and pass unless he wanted to wander off the beaten path. She tied her horse to a nearby tree and then used a long length of rope to direct the animal, so it couldn’t be avoided. 

If the King Slayer was surprised to find her there, he didn’t show it. “Stark.”

“Lannister.” 

After she confessed to Daenerys everything that happened in the dungeon, after she spoke with Jon, she spent hours in front of Bran’s monument examining herself and who she wanted to be. Her crisis of faith was over. She knew who she was, and she knew how she’d honor Bran in the years to come. She didn’t need to change. Bran loved her unconditionally, fully aware of every aspect of her life. That knowledge combined with the belief that Daenerys would love her no matter what she decided was all the confirmation she needed. It was possible to better the world through death, it was a necessary evil. One she was able to provide. 

His golden hand was hidden under a glove but his one of flesh was bare. “I’m leaving the North,” he proclaimed, as if that might change what was going to happen. 

“No,” she corrected, “you’re going to get off your horse or I’ll kill him, and it’ll be a long walk back to your sister.”

He took a few seconds to decide and then raised up out of the saddle. Satisfied she released the reigns of her stallion and let him wander. Her hands immediately went behind her back, hidden from view. On his feet he stayed back. She didn’t miss the way his hand was subtly shifting in the direction of his sword. “Your brother gave me an oath. Said I could go in peace if I honored my pledge to fight the Dead.” 

She nodded along with him. She’d heard all about Jon’s offer, but she wasn’t Jon. Bran said she wasn’t responsible for the choices others made, if that were true then Jon wasn’t responsible for hers either. “I know.”

Sensing he was testing a losing argument he tried a different one. “I saved her life you know,” he said as he took a look around, checking for an escape route. He wouldn’t find one. At least not one that didn’t involve spending hours waist deep in snow. She hadn’t picked the place at random. “Your Queen would be dead if not for me.” 

She’d heard plenty about the final battle, but no one told her the Lannister saved Daenerys’s life. That must have been what Bran thought would change her mind. She was right that day, it was the first time, perhaps the only time, he’d been wrong. It wouldn’t have mattered if she knew in advance. They still would have ended up on this same road. She thought of Bran who spent years confined to a chair because of Jaime, and of Olenna who should have died at peace, in her bed, not opposite a man she hated, afraid. She was doing the world a favor. She was delivering justice. 

“I see the way you look at her.” He smiled and shook his head to force his hair away from his eye. “I know a little bit about loving a woman you shouldn’t. You need to be more careful, if others don’t know yet, they soon will.”

Her jaw tensed as she listened to him talk about Daenerys. He didn’t know the first thing about her and it was insulting to hear him speak of her. “I’m not hiding anything,” she growled. 

He was amused. “Really? Do you truly believe that? What of your brother? You know, Daenerys’s husband?” 

The time for talk was almost done. Up her sleeve the dagger waited, she shrugged her shoulders in a well-practiced way and pushed it down into her palm. She held it behind her back for the time being. “Jon would’ve kept his word. He would have let you go.”

“But not you,” he clarified, “so much for Stark honor.” She’d heard he was quick, but even she wasn’t prepared for just how quick. Any other man and she would have gotten to his windpipe before he had time to draw but with him, she had to improvise. She threw the dagger, instead of swinging, cocking her leg up to increase the speed. It hit its mark, the center of his forearm, just above his wrist. It went in one side and came out the other. She’d been cut in the same area once and knew from experience that until it healed, making a fist and holding anything heavier than a cup of water would be nearly impossible. Without his other hand, pulling the blade would take both time and effort. He was lacking in one of those. 

He cursed as she drew Needle off her hip and held it in front of her. Arya used it like a guide toward her destination. The steel sparkled as she lashed out, striking his inside leg. He fell to his knees at her feet. “Any last words?”

Gritting his teeth, he was still trying to force the dagger from his arm. “Breaking an oath. Your father would be ashamed.” 

It was true. There would be a long list of disappointed people when she was through; her father, mother, Bran, Jon, Tyrion, Daenerys, Brienne, even Sansa probably. None of that was enough to stop her. She almost admired him, he’d gotten the blade nearly out already, just while they were talking. With another minute he might have been able to pose a challenge. “I won’t tell him if you don’t.” 

The stroke of the sword was smooth. His body fell, and she spoke to his corpse like he could still hear her. “You won’t be alone long, I’ll send your sister to meet you soon enough.” 

R-C

Daenerys joined her under the same tree where they first met. Blood was on her hands just as it had been then too. “I’m sorry,” Arya said, obviously hearing her waddle over. Everyday the simple acts she’d always taken for granted grew more complicated. 

“For what?” she asked, scouring her thoughts for whatever Arya could think she’d done wrong. 

“I killed him,” she confessed. “He told me he saved your life and I know Jon promised to let him go, but I couldn’t do it. I’m not built for forgiveness.” 

So, he was dead then? She had wondered idly if it was a coincidence that both Arya and the King Slayer were missing when she woke. Now she knew. It would have needed to happen sooner or later. Tyrion would be upset, but it was as Jaime once said about Olenna – he chose his friends poorly. “I don’t care.” 

Since learning about Varys and that Dragonstone was in Cersei’s clutches, Daenerys had come to the conclusion that peaceful coexistence wouldn’t be possible. Even the tense truce they’d been attempting was too optimistic a goal. No, another war was on the horizon and it was going to be just as bloody as the last. 

“You don’t?” 

Daenerys tried to make her way to Arya’s side, but she was too slow. Understanding what she wanted, Arya closed the space in a few graceful strides. “I was worried about you. I haven’t woken up alone since the war ended.”

“I’m sorry,” Arya said, wrapping her arms around Daenerys’s wide middle as best she could. “I didn’t mean to be gone this long, but when it was done…”

She didn’t need to explain. Daenerys understood. She knew who Arya was and loved her. She was pleased their talk, as difficult as it was, seemed to lay some things to rest for the Wolf. She was quite happy with the woman exactly as she was. She didn’t require her to change a thing. “Where is the body?” she asked looking around. She hadn’t noticed a Lion corpse in the snow on her approach, but she hadn’t been looking for one either. 

“I left him with the horse. I thought Tyrion might want to bury him. If I had my way I’d send him back to Cersei one piece at a time.” 

An appealing idea but one that would only aggravate the tensions that already existed, on both sides. “That would start a war.”

Arya pressed her lips into Daenerys’s forehead and the older woman sighed contently. “The war’s already here Daenerys. Unless you no longer want the Iron Throne.” Their conversation had taken a turn she didn’t expect. Arya misinterpreted her quiet and hurried to try and settle things. “We don’t have to. We can stay in Winterfell forever, Sansa would love to have us here and the baby would be happy. It’d be easier for Jon to visit too.”

She used a kiss to silence her lover’s rambling. “I want the Iron Throne,” she admitted. 

The Northern woman rewarded her with a warm smile, the kind reserved for only her. “Let’s go get it then.” 

R-C

The End

R-C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who managed to get through all of this. For a story that began as a one-shot, it sure took some long, winding turns. I hope the people that commented and liked this story from the beginning enjoyed how it ended. Leaving Cersei as a looming threat over all of them and having everyone forced to remain in the North together was too tempting to pass up. 
> 
> I originally planned to write both wars in a single story, but once I got going I realized how long and drawn out that would be. It would have likely ended up well over 200,000 words. That’s too long to keep people interested, so I decided to separate them. If there is an appetite for more of Arya, Daenerys and the war with Cersei, I’d be willing to write it. Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Jaime had to die. Arya’s not the forgive and forget sort. To the people that wanted Jon to die, I saw use for him if there is a sequel. I hope it doesn’t take away from the marginally happy ending. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading. It’s been fun.
> 
> Russell Craig
> 
> R-C


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